Stitchglass and Fool's Gold
by manic-intent
Summary: Gabranth x Ffamran.  Basch x Balthier.  Stitchglass and fool's gold have their own values, and Basch has never regretted being his brother's second.  Series of short fiction.
1. Stitchglass and Fool's Gold

08. fool's reward

Stitchglass and fool's gold

It is with a wry sense of self-mocking amusement that Basch realizes he has no true concept of fairness.

Oh, he knows what the word _means_. But as many abstractions in life 'fairness' is an ideal that is couched only in experience. One does not fully understand 'love', 'death', 'fair' until one experiences it, after all. Similarly, Basch supposes that for one such as himself, he does not, cannot want for what he has not known.

So Basch wonders exactly what it says of his character, that he knows now at six-and-thirty years of age that he has always been his brother's second in anything he has ever wanted (even tentatively), and he does not resent it. That his brother is so integral to his sense of self that he _cannot _resent him: Basch knows he might as well attempt to resent the need to breathe.

At ten their father presents them with a pair of near-identical swords, and there's the smallest nick on Noah's, near the hilt. His brother doesn't notice, but Basch quietly exchanges their blades. It feels only natural, then, and natural, now.

At thirteen during the Spring Dance there's a pretty girl with flashing blue eyes and dark walnut hair: she smiles at the shy one, not the sharp one, and Basch sees his brother's interest in identical gray-blue eyes. He makes sure to stay close to Noah's side, he asks her not for a dance (though the other boys vie for their chance). Later he watches her accept Noah's invite to walk a ways out into the woods, and feels only quietly glad. It's also the first time their mother berates him, gently, on what she calls his total immersion of self in his twin. She gives up, when he stares at her blankly. It has never occurred to him that it should be any other way.

At fourteen in enrolment to the Chapterhouse it's quite clear to the twins, and indeed to the swords master who is the superior at arms, and it's not the sharp one. Basch sets himself up during each practice with manufactured cracks in his defense (not too obvious, of course). It's the first time his brother has words with him. "Do not do this," Noah had said, low and bewildered. "You are better than me. Winning or losing mock duels matters not. Nothing will, between us." The blank look does not work quite as well on his brother as it had on their mother. Noah's lip curls into a snarl of exasperation, but something of Basch's uncomprehending anxiety at having upset his twin must have showed in his eyes. What follows is a tight, rough hug and a quiet application to their father, the Chapterhouse's Knight-master. They no longer duel.

At six-and-twenty his brother walks away from him, headlong into a futile war, and nothing hurt Basch more than having to refuse to stay by his side. It is the fault of a Chapterhouse education that he now has a healthy sense of duty, and the remnants of the Knight-Order have engaged themselves in escorting the Landissan refugees to allied Dalmasca.

At four-and-thirty Noah betrays him, and watches him with eyes that are carefully cold, afterwards, in the containment cell of the airship _Ifrit_. To his quiet "Do you hate me now, brother?" Basch realizes that the same blank look still finds in his brother an unwilling, uncomprehending receiver. His brother breathes angrily, through clenched teeth, then lets out a harsh bark of laughter and a mumbled word in Archadian slang that Basch does not catch. Before he turns away Basch sees a fleeting twist of regret to downcast eyes and thin lips that works, for him, far more than any worded apology. Besides, he would have forgiven Noah anything (now, and then).

At six-and-thirty years of age Basch wishes he could resent being his brother's second (not the same as actually resenting it) and wonders why this, why now. It proves rhetorical in the scorching morning heat of the sand-city of Rabanastre. At two-and-twenty the pirate with the caramel hair and the toffee-hued eyes has a secretive, ironical smile that manages to hint just as much at an invitation for forbidden sweetness (so much that and more). He does not quite recall why or when the first invitation was, for something more than companionship, but he does not quite care. It proves quite, quite barbed, and Basch isn't too surprised to suspect, beyond all rational notions of coincidence and probability, his brother's mark at the bottom of it.

How Balthier quite prefers it when the ex-Captain sleeps on his left side (his right, unscarred profile faced to the light), in the otherwise unprecedented nuzzles and nips. How he purrs so when in the moments of desperate heat Basch moans words in the thicker dialect of his homeland, out of his customary Dalmascan accent. How he much prefers it with the curve of that graceful back to Basch, instead of face first, arched with fingers clawed in the sheets of whatever cheap inn they may have engaged for the night.

How he never gives voice to Basch's name, no matter what the ex-Captain might care to try; no, not even within sun-sight of the traveling day. Basch does not ask. He was about to, once, but Balthier seemed to guess, and he gave voice to a shuddering, choking breath of old pain, so at odds with his usual outrageous self-confidence, that Basch could do nothing but kiss away the sound.

He knows it is quite foolish of them both: himself, to allow his heart to be used in such a way. Balthier, for the substitution, for in something false as this there can be no reward that is not bitter. It must, however, be infinitely better to have than to have not (and in the sun-sight of the desert, watching Balthier's catlike grace, even wilting beneath a withering tree under the desert sun and complaining vociferously about the sand, the setna flies, the sun-bleach, the _indignity_ of walking and the baking heat to his long-suffering Viera partner), he realizes just as wryly that even as he wishes he could resent being his brother's second, he has never been more glad for it.

There is something of value even in stitchglass and fool's gold.

--

Given the situation Basch supposes he can quite be forgiven for having his suspicions, when Balthier abruptly leaves them to go on unspecified 'business' in Archadia. There's nothing in the ironical half-smile and the withering tone he uses to evade Vaan's questions, but there's a softness in his eyes that Basch has only seen before on the ageing tail of night upon the cusp of dawn, sometimes, when he wakes to feel gun-roughened hands card in his hair and tickle over his jaw.

Not to mention Fran is rather obviously not following him (suspicious enough). Basch pleads business of his own, once Balthier has gone, and tails him. Adventurers are not quite so common in Archades, so close to Balfonheim, and it takes little effort to make discreet enquiries.

It leads him to a crumbling sandstone archway that frames a square of neglected park. Ivy has strangled the turquoise metal curlesques of a bench, dusted in blackening rust. Wildflowers dot the few patches of ground open to the sunlight that are not thick with a dead blanket of musty leaves, white, yellow, pink, pale blue; the bushes war with each other for territory, and above them all five old ashenva trees, their gnarled parchment-gray trunks and writhing boughs faintly eerie under their uneven emerald crowns. Basch flattens himself in the shadow of the layered archway, under the blessing of a grinning stone Manticore, half its human face dusted with lichen and cracks.

He can recognize his brother easily. Noah is dressed casually, in a cream shirt tucked a little untidily into chestnut breeches. His arms are folded, and his weight shifts uncertainly over black ankle boots. So attuned to his twin, Basch understands the tense hunch to shoulders and the slightly inclined head for wariness, anxiety.

Balthier is standing a few paces away, his thumbs tucked in his belts, and he does not smile; his voice is quite neutral. "Thanks for coming."

"_Ffamran._" Basch knows the sudden tightness in his chest as heartache, when his brother breathes Balthier's birth-name in a thick note of frustration, benediction and raw longing. He sees Balthier open his mouth to frame a no doubt withering reply, but Noah's honed speed proves his undoing.

A heartbeat of time, and his brother roughly claims Balthier's lips. It's not until the sky pirate's tightly clenched fists unravel to rest feather-light on Noah's hips that Basch recognizes the sensation in his knotting belly as a sort of oddly wistful jealousy.

Balthier eventually jerks away, wiping his mouth, his eyes angry and hot. "Gabranth." A long breath, then he shakes his head. "Touch me again and you'll not see hide nor hair of me for the rest of your life."

At that flat threat, Noah takes a step back to the gray tree. "Where did you go? Why did you leave?" A growl. "Why _four years_, Ffamran, before sending me notice that you still lived?"

"So many questions at once. As impatient as always. It does not behoove a Judge-Magister, Gabranth," Balthier's tone is archly playful, brittle in its self-control. "I left because I am no man's servant, Gabranth, less so a power-hungry prince of Solidor. You Judges are now not so much the hand of order as the ruling house's lapdogs, now. Their personal guard. Also," he adds sharply, when Noah seemed ready to voice another outburst, "Zecht is my friend."

Noah seems to deflate a little at that. "You could still have told me," he mutters, glancing down at his boots.

"Aye, and you would have done your best to hinder any escape." Balthier's smile is soft now, odd with old affection.

"Then why come back now?" Noah asks, the note of hope in his voice painful to his brother to hear. Balthier, however, can be quite brutal for his age.

As he is now. "I need some information, my sandalwood chops seem outdated, and Jules is getting expensive."

Noah wordlessly hands over something white and carved from his pockets, and Balthier's smile is now sharp, even as he delicately picks up whatever it is whilst carefully not touching Basch's twin. "Thank you. Now, information. Is my father in town?"

Noah's brow furrows. "Yes, but..."

"Vayne?"

"No."

"Zargabaath?"

"Left yesterday. Ffamran..."

"Larsa?"

"I have not had an opportunity to talk to his Lordship since Bhujerba. Our schedules clash."

"Seen Zecht skulking about lately? He's a man of old habits, 'tis sure to show up in his favorite haunts."

"Someone matching his description, certainly, but we cannot spare many to try and track a fish as slippery as he. _Ffamran._"

"I'll count that kiss you stole as ample payment," Balthier says, with calculated absentness, staring distractedly at the sky as though mulling over the information. "Thanks."

"You could have gotten that information from any other," Noah snaps, near the end of his tether. "You have friends yet in the Department."

"For now, certainly. I did hear that you killed Drace. Under Vayne's order, no less," Balthier's tone is steely, now. Uncompromising. Noah seems to wish to state something in his defence, but gives up, lowering his head.

"This is revenge, then." Noah sounds resigned.

"Nothing so complicated." Balthier shrugs. "I was somewhat curious to see if you've changed."

"Changed, or changed my mind?" Noah's smile is humorless.

"Both.

"I have duties."

"I'll take that as a 'no', then," Balthier inclines his head, with a dancer's grace. "Fare you well, Gabranth. Try not to expend too much effort looking for me in Archades. You do, after all, have _duties_."

"Wait. Ffamran." The rawness in Noah's voice arrests the sky pirate in mid-turn. "You were not like this."

"Neither were you, to kill a friend on the say-so of another," Balthier says, with mocking pleasantry. "What changed _you_?"

Noah curls nails into his palms, and looks around distractedly, then he glances up at the sky and lets out a long breath. "Remember when I told you I had a brother."

"Who died in a war. So you said." Balthier's voice is disinterested. "So?"

"He's alive. Imprisoned. I do not know where now. Vayne holds his life in his hands." Noah seems to mistake Balthier's intake of breath as the wrong sort of surprise. "He was a General of Dalmasca. Were he captured he would have been put to the sword. Instead they... we... disgraced him and had him apparently executed. Ffamran, it was the only way."

"You are a fair bit more deluded than I had even originally thought," Balthier says, with droll pity, even as Basch stops breathing in his shock. "When was the last time you saw this brother of yours? How do you know he still lives?"

"I saw him in Nalbina when I was looking for you there, having heard that you had been arrested." Noah's voice is reproachful. "You have the worst timing. I can only thank the Gods that you somehow managed to escape." Something in Balthier's face makes his brother give pause. "Ffamran. Did you, in Nalbina..."

"Gave me quite a shock to see you really meant 'identical'," Basch hears the impish grin in Balthier's voice but distantly, dizzy in the welcome knowledge that he still at least had some form of his brother's love. "Also," (and here's his revenge, now, Basch thinks, for all the pirate's words on pettiness), "He's a fair bit more gentle than you are."

Noah looks stricken, so much so that he makes no move to object or stop Balthier, when the sky pirate turns to go. He manages to speak, finally, when Balthier is at the archway (only the flicker in the edges of walnut eyes tells Basch that he has been spotted). "You love him?"

"Not as I do you," Balthier shrugs, and Basch knows the frank honesty would do far more to break his brother's heart (linked to his own, he feels the ache). "He is too much your shadow."

"Aye," Noah said, bitterly, "And all our life together I have tried to get him to change. I thought it would only serve him ill. But it seems it has given you to him."

"You are both quite given to the strangest absolutes," Balthier does not look at Basch when he says this. "As before, as I am now, I belong to no one."

Noah stands by himself for a long time even after the final echoes of Balthier's footsteps on crumbling stone fades away, then he turns and punches the gray trunk of the tree next to him with a choked sound. Heavy breathing, then incoming footsteps. He almost does not notice his brother.

Gray-blue meets gray-blue, for a long, shocked moment, then Noah has curled long fingers tight around Basch's neck, and he's gasping for breath (both), but his own hands around Noah's wrists are not so much defence but reflex. The lethal pressure lasts only a heartbeat, then his brother's face is buried in his shoulder, arms tight around his chest. He knows the right response likely isn't to smile, but he cannot help it (whole, again). "Noah."

He berates himself for speaking when Noah looks up sharply and steps back, his expression so hard now that Basch cannot quite read it. "Brother."

Basch nods. _Your brother_, he wants to say. He settles for a, "What will you do, now?"

"Do?" Noah looks away and picks absently at his sleeve, the motion so much like Balthier that it distracts Basch for a moment from his thoughts. But of course: lovers develop each other's habits. Then Noah smiles, in the lazy, come-on-then way that Basch remembers from his childhood, so _right_ that his heart twists. "What would you think I would do, brother?"

"I would hope that you leave. But I think you will see things out to the end." _As you did, in Landis._

"I mean Ffamran. He's using you." Noah leans against the wall, by Basch's side. It seemed that there was far too much of the convoluted between them, that they could only touch on the most recent things.

"Aye."

"And you mind not." Only the faintest hint of bitterness. Basch is not quite sure whether it is directed at himself or at Balthier.

"Aye."

"Sometimes I feel like shaking you, but I feel t'will just be like kicking a puppy," Noah mutters, and Basch realizes with some surprise that the resentment is moreso directed at Balthier's treatment of him (and them both) than of his acceptance of being used. He treasures the moment all the more so that he knows it cannot last; indeed that this could be their final moment of being brothers. Noah seems to recognize this; his shoulders slump, and his jaw sets. "What drives you, brother?"

"The same as yourself, I should think. Duty."

"It leaves little place for much else. I should not be so surprised if neither of us can keep him."

"Aye." Basch has known this since the very first night he had been invited, with sly smiles and maddening touches, to an embrace made no less precious by the fact that his beloved was thinking of another person who so happened to wear his face. But there is still value in fool's gold and stitchglass.

He does not realize he spoke out loud until he realizes Noah is staring at him, in a mixture of bemused resignation. "Perhaps there is." His twin pushes away from the aged stone, and squeezes his shoulder. "When we next meet, it will be as enemies."

"It need not be so," Basch says, with as much resolution as he can afford in his voice. "Brother..."

"Duty is a cruel mistress, little brother." Noah shrugs, as he ambles away down cracked cobblestones, with a backward wave. "I wish you all luck with your illusions."

--

His brother's words echo in his mind, long afterwards, in the break of morn in the first day of their refuge in Balfonheim, Balthier curled exhausted and sleeping in the crook of his elbow. For someone whose life was not given overmuch to pleasure, even tiny, transient gems as these were worth much to treasure: the scent of the sea and the cold fingers of the morning breeze over his shoulder, another set of breathing that wafted warmth against an ear, a lover who was not quite his, that he knows he cannot ultimately keep.

-fin-


	2. Just above the heart

Feb 011: a pound of flesh

[A/N: RE: Underaged: Is 16 underage? Not in Australia. The age of consent is itself in flux, due to Aboriginal laws. Aboriginal brides can marry at 12 (and the age of consent with their husband seems arguable). If you're 15 and your partner is within 2 years of your age it's also technically not statutory rape. Therefore, this story, so as to fit the time lines (thesoulwithin told me that Ffamran made Judge at 15, I believe), is for me not shota. ;3 Would fit in timeline of 'Stitchglass and Fool's Gold'.

Furthermore, I admit to reading Patterson's 'Cross'. However, forgot to bring it back to Melbourne with me, so haven't finished.

FF net note: This is a series of vaguely connected short fiction revolving around ideas in Stitchglass and Fool's Gold. I suppose I've technically finished, since there's nothing much else I want to add to the arc.

Just above the Heart

"Someday," Gabranth says dryly, as he shifts downwards on the armchair, to spoon the warm weight more evenly over cramping thighs, "Someone _will_ find out."

"About what?" The boy in his lap is over-young, truly, for both this life and _this_: but at sixteen (and a half, _he_ insists), Ffamran somehow manages to retain both an adorable edge of boyishness, in the softness of his chin and his slender waist, as well as an adult sensuality in the twist of that wicked mouth and the knowing downward four-step of elegant fingers. The combination makes for a brand of allure that Gabranth finds irresistible despite any sort of self-discipline he might care to exert.

"About how the very young _Judge_ Ffamran seems over-close to Judge-Magister Gabranth," he replies, as he curls a bare arm over the previously admired waist and pulls the lithe body closer. Ffamran's scent, in the silky curls under his nose: gunpowder, books, soap.

"Are you _still_ obsessed over that detail?" Ffamran twists in his lap, purposefully grinding back his hips as he does so, and shoots a pouting glance over the curve of one shoulder.

They are both dressed casually, for off-duty: Ffamran in a soft white shirt, the three-quarter sleeves elaborately tooled at the edges with gold-thread designs of curling ivy, haphazardly tucked into a pair of almost outrageously tight fawn breeches that stop short in large pale velvet blue cuffs just after the knees. A naked foot curves under Gabranth's bare calf, stroking absently, rubbing against the Judge-Magister's more sober navy blue long breeches. Small fingers tug playfully at the brass buttons of Gabranth's cloud-gray shirt.

"'Tis unethical in more ways than I can care to count," Gabranth points out, but the half-smile on his face shows this as an old argument that he relies on the boy to convince him of otherwise. Far too many things about Ffamran tug so much on his heart's strings that true severance would be quite impossible; would, he thinks, kill him.

"Sixteen is the legal age for anything in Archadia, it is not unknown for Judges to have relationships with each other, homosexuality is only illegal in Valendia, and if you think the other Judge-Magisters are blissfully unaware you are rather mistaken. 'Tis more than coincidence that we have yet had the pleasure of facing each other across the Bench." Ffamran counts off the points on the fingers of his free hand, in a drawl of exaggerated patience, even as he begins to roll his hips.

Gabranth bites back a deepening growl, and pointedly ignores the boy's impatience, exerting his superior self-control over himself, arching an eyebrow at the muttered curse. As a form of conciliation, he pops two buttons over Ffamran's belly, and strokes fingers through over velvety flesh. He's glad that he had finally caved to the younger Judge's pressures and purchased a private apartment in a quieter suburb of Upper Archades; Ffamran had gotten tired of the many calls that other Judges made on Gabranth's time, at any point in the day, when the Judge-Magister still was at residence in the Justice dormitories.

This apartment is far more comfortable, and Gabranth is thankful that he gave some effort to picking furniture. The white leather armchair still smells new, despite occasional misuse; and, of course, the armrest at the edge is _just_ at the right height with which to lift one slender leg to spread his lover's thighs. He feels Ffamran's body tense against his, in anticipation, but continues petting his belly only, nuzzling his hair, his free hand sprawled over the opposite arm rest.

When he replies, his voice is mild, as though considering something purely philosophical. "The age of consent differs in criminal and contract law, and occasionally has conflicts even within the same field of law itself. Judge-Magisters have never been known to take partners with other Judges. Homosexuality is not overtly illegal in Archadia but the prejudice exists, even within case law, and the coincidence is not quite so overwhelming, given that you are technically part of Zargabaath's department."

"Has anyone told you before that you can be terribly boring?" Ffamran's reply carries just the faintest hint of a petulant whine.

"Has anyone told you that personal criticism is not an acceptable logical refute?" Gabranth's reply, on the other hand, follows the tail of a rich chuckle that makes the boy in his lap shiver.

"Your idea of foreplay leaves much to be desired," Ffamran mutters mulishly, as though he had not heard, his eyes fixed on the glass table before them that rests on white bearskin.

"Desire, of course, being such a fascinating word, in all its connotations," Gabranth slowly unbuttons Ffamran's shirt, starting from the belly up to the neck, making sure to trail the pads of his fingers against twitching flesh along the way. "Wherever did you learn that curse?"

"What curse?" Ffamran's voice is already distracted, as Gabranth slides the open shirt over boyishly slender shoulders to pool in folds over his elbows, stroking both sword-roughened hands over his arms. Gabranth repeats the word in question for clarification. "Oh. That. I heard it uh… in the aerodrome a few days ago… aah."

The boy arches against him as he trails fingers up from ribs to nipples, pebbling them with expert upward rubs of his thumbs, stroking and gently tugging, as he rasps teeth over one elfishly delicate ear to the curve of Ffamran's jaw, then brushes butterfly kisses over the graceful neck. It takes a difficult amount of self-control to ignore the breathy little pleas and the insistent writhing on his lap, but this is a game they're both quite familiar with, at this stage. A year of being 'involved', and only of late had that taken a physical meaning (despite Ffamran's various efforts throughout said year, and only because Gabranth had been a little more than slightly drunk on his birthday), and he has already had a decent amount of experience with this particular instrument.

"Do forget all about it," Gabranth advises, nipping over the arch of Ffamran's right shoulder, then sucking over the mark, to redden it. He loves the canvas of Ffamran's flesh, a delicate pale due to the encasing Judge uniform, that marks so easily with rose. "It is very unbecoming."

"I can show you unbecoming," Ffamran grits out, in between whimpers, the fingers of one hand tight over the vacated arm rest, the other slipping down between two sets of legs to rub insistently over the swell in Gabranth's breeches. The Judge-Magister permits himself a hungry growl, right next to the cup of one pale ear, which makes Ffamran buck backwards and whine. "Please."

"The young can be so impatient," Gabranth grins when Ffamran glares at him with unfocused eyes over the shoulder he is busily marking, and tugs at the soft lobe of an ear with his teeth. "Turn over."

The purr he injects into that command makes Ffamran comply without comment, still tangled in the folds of his shirt, though he forgets about freeing himself when Gabranth pulls him close with a splayed hand over the small of his back. The first lash of a wet tongue against a reddened nipple makes him shudder, dig fingers into Gabranth's shoulders, and hiss. "Our law has… ohh… strong covenants against… torture, Gabranth."

"Outside of prisoners-of-war, yes." Gabranth's voice is steady, even as he licks a slow path to the other nub of flesh, taking his time to explore this one with the tip of his tongue.

Fingers are curled in his short hair, curled over the base of his skull, the other digging harder into his shoulder. He can feel a curve of heat pressed against his abdomen, and the boy is panting, now, even as he struggles to keep up. "Of which category I do not fall into."

"Do you not think 'tis quite curious how love seems to be equated with war in many proverbs?" Gabranth strokes the hand at the small of Ffamran's back to the pert rump, his other deftly undoing the ties on the other Judge's breeches.

"If by that you mean that both sides tend to be at unequal advantages, I do see a correlation." Ffamran unexpectedly leans down, then, and gently pulls up his chin. The kiss is sweet and slow, with a flick of a warm tongue against his teeth, at odds with the sexual frustration that the boy must be enduring. When they break, Ffamran speaks in a low intensity beyond his years, a hair's breadth from Gabranth's lips. "I love you, Gabranth. And nobody will love you as I do."

--

Basch may have been suspended mostly alone in the dark for what felt like eternity (it is to his surprise that he finds it has only been two years), but it has not blinded him to the rest of the world. The sky pirate Balthier steals glances at him far more than even curiosity should dictate, and they are the wrong sort of glances: the sort that makes the back of his neck prickle, and his cheeks start to warm. Thin from deprivation, his shoulders bearing the red scars of recent lashes over the white scars of older punishment, the scars of sores over his wrists still raw despite the Viera's attempts at healing, his hair long and matted and greasy over his scalp and jaw, Basch knew he cut a highly unattractive (and rather pungent) figure.

When they stop for a breather, in the abandoned tunnels, the Viera leaves them to scout ahead, and the boy astonishingly manages to curl up over the rocks to sleep, exhausted from the excitement of an escape from a dungeon. Balthier wanders off by himself over the twisted wreck of the rails, to sit quietly on a large slab of fallen rock debris and stare broodingly down the seemingly endless passage.

It is as good a time to speak to him as any, and Basch walks up to him. "Balthier."

"Mm?" Balthier's voice is distant, then he seems to come back to himself with a start, and his smile becomes lazy, cynical. "My dear king-slayer. If you do wish to make small talk I'll trouble you to wash yourself in the nearest pool of water you can find, first."

"I did _not_…" Basch begins, automatically, then catches the faintest gleam of an amused twinkle in Balthier's eye, and belatedly realizes that two years in the dark seemed to have done liberal damage to his sense of humor. "I apologize."

"You should catch some rest," Balthier advises him. "I will keep watch, and Fran should be back soon from sniffing out a path. She tells me there is a fork ahead."

"There would be enough time for that once we are out of here," Basch says. _Out in the open, where I can see the sky._

Balthier seems to understand: he inclines his head. "Very well. Basch. What was your surname again, _fon_ Ronsenburg?"

"Some Dalmascans confuse it as _von_," Basch agrees, glad for the opportunity to talk about inconsequentials. He has not realized how much he has missed being able to talk normally, and about nothing at all, over two years of the occasional interrogation for information and bitter exchanges with his brother.

"Then whoever is your so-called twin brother, who betrayed you?" Basch looks sharply at Balthier as the sky pirate says this, but can only discern polite curiosity. Of course: the sky pirates are free birds, and birds concern themselves very little at all, with politics and treachery.

"Ah… Noah fon Ronsenburg, my brother. He is a Judge… a Judge-Magister, actually. Known as Gabranth."

"How very interesting," Balthier murmurs, and this is only in the same clinical curiosity. "One brother a Captain of the Dalmascan Knights, the other a Judge-Magister. Was your mother a Senator of Rozarria and your Father a Hierophant of Nabradia, per chance?"

"Nothing quite so sundered," Basch says, and realizes he remembers how to laugh. Balthier's eyes are dancing, at this apparent triumph, and it seems the sky pirate has intended this all along. But the concern fades quickly into a shuttered enigmatic expression, again, when Basch struggles to voice a question as to his motives. "What will you be doing, when we… escape?"

"Escort you and the brat back to Rabanastre and make nefarious plans to steal that shard in his possession, perhaps. Or leave on the next wind-tide to the Escatean Purveema. Or cruise down to Balfonheim to lie on the beach." Balthier shrugs, and Basch envies him his freedom, for a heartbeat, before duty reclaims him. "What are you going to do?"

"Take a hot bath," Basch says immediately, and Balthier grins: the attempt at humor is evidently appreciated. "After that… I have duties to the Resistance."

"Very clever. Given that everybody believes you killed the King," Balthier says dryly. "No matter. 'Tis your skin. But if you change your mind, Fran and I will be in port for at least a day. You can get a ride with us out to Balfonheim. I highly recommend lying on the beach as therapy to two years of sensory deprivation."

Curiosity and honor makes him apologize. "I have no means of repaying you."

Balthier stares at him for a long moment, until Basch begins to feel uncomfortable, again, though he forces himself to hold the sky pirate's eyes. Finally, Balthier chuckles, softly, looking down at loosely knotted fingers on his lap. His words have the carefully scripted ring of something that had been mulled over in the last few hours or so. "The pirate king Reddas would be quite interested in your story. Enough to reimburse me. And besides, no doubt your honor dictates that this would be a safe investment for me. Someday you will find a way to repay your debt."

Basch attempts to think quickly of a suitable response, but is interrupted by the faint sounds of metallic clicks that heralds Fran's return. The Viera looks at the both of them, thoughtfully, then addresses her partner. "We turn right at the junction. It is not far."

"All right. Time to wake up that brat," Balthier stretches luxuriously, and shoulders his rifle. As he passes Basch, he murmurs, "At your disposal for a day, Captain. Think of it as pity if it makes you feel any better."

'Why' and 'how' are questions that consume Basch's mind throughout their escape, and then he steps out of the musty dark into the scorching heat of the sun and the sharp scents of the desert, and he forgets to ask meaning, motive, and method; does not see how Balthier's expression twists briefly when he turns his face up towards the blue sky with the first genuine smile of delight that he has harbored for two long years.

-fin-


	3. December Exchange Drabbles

**-December Exchange-**

**Title**: Chasing the Furthermost Clouds [Fool's Gold  
**Day/Theme**: Dec 11/True beauty lies on the blue horizon  
**Series**: Final Fantasy XII  
**Character/Pairing**: Basch x Balthier, Gabranth x Balthier  
**Rating**: PG13  
**A/N**: Decisions upon regaining possession of the Strahl.

The day they repossess what is rightfully theirs is typical of Rabanastre: arid, hot, and full of setna flies. But the wind is sweet, especially once they climb it, up into blue eternity, then the thump and the muted roar-hum of the powering glossair rings, the sheathe-slide of the unfolding wings, then the spine-crushing jump as the Strahl streaks into freedom's embrace. Balthier allows himself a momentary purr of pleasure, stroking fingers over the much-loved and missed control panel, the leather seat of the armrest. The brats had kept it under excellent condition, though there is a very odd lingering scent of vanilla, especially around the engine-room.

Fran's long fingers are swift over joysticks and switches, second-nature to her, and she twitches her ears as she glances at him. "Where to?"

"Wherever, whenever." Balthier's smile is lazy in its pleasure.

"Archades?" Fran suggests, and the sky pirate blinks.

"Why for?"

His show of uncomprehending innocence only earned him a disapproving sniff. "You know why."

"Oh, that," Balthier shrugged. "I was 'involved' with one Basch fon Ronsenburg. There's only Gabranth, now."

"Names are but names," Fran observes. "Mates need each other."

"Unfortunately, for Humes, 'tis a fair bit more complicated than that," Balthier sets course for the Althrefeq Purveema, and Fran is quick to support him, automatic and efficient. "And my only mistress is the next horizon."

-fin-

**Title**: No fault of mine [Fool's Gold  
**Day/Theme**: Dec 22/The hunger inside, given to me, makes me what I am.  
**Series**: Final Fantasy XII  
**Character/Pairing**: Basch x Balthier, Gabranth x Balthier  
**Rating**: PG13  
**A/N**: An absolute pursuit of freedom destroys aught else.

His hunger for freedom has already destroyed one love, and now it seems set to destroy another (if it has not, already). The Althrefeq Purveema provides him with all of three days of amusement: the heist is too easy (fat merchants and their false senses of security). Then they have to lie low, to wait for the heat to die off before leaving, and so Balthier spends his time brooding comfortably (no sense doing it any other way) in any number of the delightfully quaint bake cafes that are characteristic of the Althrefeq. This Purveema has the largest population of Viera outside of Golmorra, and Fran is mostly occupied.

Balthier is slightly irked to realize that the normal rush from a successful heist had not, this time, created within him an equal urge to seek out casual company. He finds himself a little taken aback, at this: years, and years ago, even fresh from the heart-pain of the first love that freedom consumed, the adrenaline rush from theft had always managed to affect him.

Now he finds himself spending the after-days thinking about gray-blue eyes and cropped-short hair (he's heard, from a missive from Vaan - the boy is developing into a decent sky pirate, to think he'd managed to track Balthier's mailing address down... or perhaps it was Penelo. More likely). For Basch is now Gabranth, and must have cut his hair short. Would now wear Gabranth's clothes, learn Gabranth's mannerisms, his speech, his poise. The temptation to go back to Archades is so great that he dreams of it, on and off (alone in a bed). Fran makes no comment: she does not need to.

But he knows that under the role, 'Gabranth' is not Gabranth: his love is dead. Even if he can forget that, Basch's scar would remind him, that this unjust illusion he enforces on them both is fundamentally and grotesquely unfair, even with Basch's whole-hearted consent.

Even if Gabranth had survived he could not have gone back, in any case. Ffamran died the night Balthier stole away with Zecht in a 'borrowed' airship, headed to Balfonheim (what happens when one cuts heart's strings). Balthier's heart is so closely guarded that Gabranth, who demanded everything, would have not received anything; Basch, on the other hand, who asked for nothing, who seemed grateful of each 'gift' of affection (be it second-hand or false), had a much better chance of a hold on 'Balthier' than Gabranth ever could.

But neither has kept him: he is free.

No, he could not go back. Balthier turns his face up to the warm sun, then frowns, when a shadow falls across him. Basch looks slightly out of breath, in parted lips, and indeed, is so much like Gabranth now that Balthier's heart aches; not even the scar across his face serves its purpose. His words prove Basch a quick study: the Archadian accent is still a little too feigned, but, oh Gods, does he sound too much like a ghost of the sky pirate's past. "You are a surprisingly difficult man to find." 

"That's the whole point of being an outlaw," Balthier drawls, to buy time, his eyes darting this way and that. Running away like a frightened hare would be far too undignified. Better to 'lose' Basch later, find Fran, and leave, chancing heat from the authorities. "How _did_ you find me?"

Basch takes a seat, absently running fingers through short-cropped hair (another of Gabranth's gestures, not Basch's, and already natural. And it had only been one year). "I am not sure if I should betray my sources."

"That bloody pair of brats," Balthier mutters.

"If it helps them in any way, the inducement offered was substantial," Basch admits wryly.

"Took leave?"

"Working holiday," Basch shrugs (and this was a Basch gesture, not Gabranth's). "Diplomatic overtures to the Primium."

"Do forgive me if I find the coincidence incredible." Balthier says, ordering coffee with a few gestures for Basch.

"There was no coincidence," Basch agrees comfortably.

Balthier sighs, his patience for small talk already worn thin. "I will but run again, and you will not find me."

"You will run again," Basch settles in his chair, Gabranth's armor shifting over his shoulders as he resettles the ornate plates, "But I will find you." When Balthier sucks in breath to snarl, he added, quietly, "My brother had words for you, before the end." He glanced away. "I had to lie to him. He asked for you, but you were in the... in Bahamut. He was a little delirious, and thought that you were navigating. I told him you were."

"I'm not sure if you are apologizing to me, or for what reason," Balthier says dryly, though the mention of Gabranth, at the end, is a reminder of a death that forms a wound deep within him that has not yet begun to scab.

"He said he loved you. That he had always loved you. And he asked me to love you as he did." Basch's voice is painfully frank.

"And?" Balthier's, in comparison, is flat. This love, he does not want (the echo of a ghost's love).

"And I said I could not. In many things I am his second, but I am not his double; cannot be, in this matter. He was content to accept an assertion that I would love you, but in the dictates of my own heart." Basch smiles. "And in my case, duty can be quite an accommodating mistress."

-fin-

**Title**: Today, Please [Fool's Gold  
**Day/Theme**: Dec 27/There is no turning back now. You've woken up the demon in me  
**Series**: Final Fantasy XII  
**Character/Pairing**: Gabranth x Ffamran  
**Rating**: R  
**A/N**: Intoxication is a good plot device...

Gabranth was aware that he was a little too drunk for his own good. The ground was unrepentantly unstable, the crisp night air was too sharp, and navigating the two flights of stairs to the larger Judge-Magister apartments was proving difficult. Whoever he was leaning on seemed to have infinite patience, however, thankfully enough. The gruff voice telling him _next step now, next step_ took him but a moment to identify as Zargabaath's. Yes. That would explain it.

Somewhere in front of him there was a chuckle of pure, wicked amusement. Ffamran, then. Gabranth reflected a little groggily if bitterly that he would never live this down, tomorrow, but what the hell, it was his thirtieth birthday, and he was due a little embarrassment. Besides, it was all worth it simply to see Judge-Magister Satre dance like that (retina-burning memories).

Zargabaath lowered him gently to the bed, then, by the sounds of it, retreated to the doorway of the bedroom, just as Gabranth tried to control his throat, his vision, as well as his memory (weren't they just on the stairs a moment ago?). Voices.

"Are you sure you would be fine?" Zargabaath was asking.

"Do not worry. Leave it to me to get him tucked abed," Ffamran's voice held a hint of reproach. "You are not so stable yourself, and of all in the party I was the only one not allowed to drink."

"Well," Zargabaath grinned, and there was a squeak (the older Judge-Magister had probably ruffled Ffamran's hair), "In Common Law…"

"Yes, yes," Ffamran said impatiently, "In Common Law the dispensation of alcoholic beverages to minors, defined as eighteen, is not legal. Legislatively however the age of adulthood is sixteen, thank you."

Gabranth groaned, and rolled over in his bed. The issue of adulthood was one of Ffamran's favorite topics, since he had turned sixteen about four months ago and realized that the magic age did not mean a subsequent change in the way the other Judges treated him (still like a child). Even Gabranth, at times when he forgot himself, was no different, despite the fact that even in his best state of denial he could no longer call their relationship that of friends.

Thankfully, that seemed to interrupt both Judges in their conversation. Retreating footsteps told him Zargabaath had left, and the click of a door closing, that Ffamran was just as like to try and take advantage of his situation, as he had tried at various circumstances in the past few months. Unfortunately, the alcohol mellowed him to this thought.

"You stink of liquor," Ffamran muttered, somewhere above his shoulder, and slender fingers are unbuttoning his shirt and tugging at it. He frowns a little as he tries to help, then gives up when it proves too much effort. Belt. Boots. When fingers got to the knots of his breeches, he caught the wrist quickly.

"Ffamran." 

"Blast," He turned around onto his back to see Ffamran's impish smirk. "And here I thought I could use the sudden lack in hand-eye coordination."

"Help me to the shower," Gabranth said, suddenly tired. He didn't feel fit enough to deal with Ffamran's overtures, and, dizzy as he was, one could perhaps forgive Gabranth for not seeing how the boy's eyes darkened.

The shower cell was cramped, and he braced himself against the tiles and waited for the hot water to clear his mind. At which point, to his consternation, his mind registered the fact that he was not alone, nor did either of them have a stitch of clothing between them. Ffamran smirked, at his expression, pulled down his head, and kissed him, fingers groping downwards before he could find the presence of mind to stop him (water sleeting over the curve of elegant, naked shoulders, pinking unmarked flesh down the valley of the spine to that rump).

Sometime later, Gabranth gasped, "Your first time?"

Ffamran rolled his eyes. "What do you think?"

"The bed," Gabranth amended, and those lovely nut-brown eyes gleamed, even though the boy's reply was skeptical.

"Are you trying to wriggle out of this again?"

"You've pushed me far past that, I can assure you," he growled. Ffamran's body was sandwiched between his bulkier frame and the water-warmed tiles of the cell; the boy whimpered as Gabranth snapped his hips upwards, grinding the evidence of his arousal between legs wrapped around his waist. "Whatever happens after, t'will be well and truly your fault."

"Said so graciously," Ffamran's laughter was staccatoed with gasps, "I can but accept the responsibility.

-fin-

**Title**: One man's cliché [Fool's Gold  
**Day/Theme**: Dec 28/Every night, I look at the sky  
**Series**: Final Fantasy XII  
**Character/Pairing**: Gabranth x Ffamran  
**Rating**: PG13  
**A/N**: Gabranth measures time in the wake of Ffamran's disappearance.

Four days, six hours and twenty-two minutes.

The private apartment now seems impersonally cold. Empty. Gabranth stands at a corner of the stone balcony, the pebbled ground icy under bared feet, and stares up, distracted and restless, at the perfect moon. Ffamran really has had no sense of dramatic convenience, to leave four days before a full moon, that boy… and he shakes himself sharply, taking another gulp of Rozarrian whisky. Hot fire down his throat. His vision wavers, for a moment. Ah, right. He had told himself to stop thinking about him, if only for an hour. Half an hour. No, wait.

Four days, six hours and thirty-one minutes.

Gabranth retreats briefly into the empty apartment to pour himself a little more whisky. He's already been on leave since the incident, and he knows he has to eventually go back to work, or risk damaging everything he has worked for since Landis. The persona of Judge-Magister Gabranth needs effort to maintain. Emotionless, merciless, an encapsulation of Justice. He has never felt less so, and all because of…

Four days, seven hours and two minutes.

Rather annoyingly, he seems to be out of whisky. No matter, the sun is up, and it seems a little less satisfying to brood in the light of the morning. Gabranth drags himself back to his bedchambers and burrows under the blankets. If he concentrates, he can still smell gunpowder and musk (or perhaps he's but deluding himself so). He knows somewhere around the apartment there's likely a discarded shirt or two, but t'will be too much of an affront to what dignity he has left. Such mourning is not quite masculine, after all. Tears. Strange. He had rather thought he'd done his time of them, at least a day ago.

Four days, seven hours and forty-eight minutes.

Gabranth's eye keeps catching on the framed portrait beside the bed, which he hasn't yet had the heart to hide. It's a sunny Archadian autumn, on the Central Square, the stately trees red and gold behind them. Ffamran's smile is playful, yet with the faintest suggestion of promise that only Gabranth can read, in the tilt of his chin and the slight narrowing of his eyes. Behind him, Gabranth himself, one arm a little nervously around his lover (they are, after all, in public), his own smile a little distracted. As he is now, he jerks his eyes away to the crack in the ceiling (memorized, on his back, on better days) and curses the renegade, Zecht. He knows 'tis irrational: t'was not Zecht's fault in the least, the matters that had led to his inevitable flight. But for him to have taken Ffamran…!

Four days, eight hours and ten minutes.

The sun is getting a little warm. Gabranth finds his fingers groping to the letter he had found on his bed, that held at the end the flamboyant curves of Ffamran's signature. There's a quote from one of their favorite plays, the Sky King's Daughter:

'Why seek thou to leave, child, when thou'st everything?  
Sire, it is the nature of all creatures to want what they cannot have  
When one hast everything, then one wants nothing  
And that is liberty.

Flown south with Zecht. Both of us agree that executions are unlikely to prove fun for all and sundry. If you love me, do not find me. -Ffamran'

Four days, eight hours, and twenty-four minutes.

In the White Cap tavern in Balfonheim, Zecht frowns at his companion's preoccupation. It has already been four days since their flight from Archades, and Ffamran's spirits remain remarkably low. But of course: Zecht knows the boy has left at least half of his heart behind. "You never had to come with me," he said, mildly.

Ffamran's lip quirks into a humorless smile. "Are we discussing this yet again?"

"You had a future in Archades. If you did not like the Department you could simply have retired. There was no need to follow me here. Become an outlaw, a pirate. Do not misunderstand me: I am very grateful that you saved my life and broke me out of prison. But I do not wish to see your choice be your ruin."

"Perhaps I want to be a pirate," Ffamran suggested in a drawl that sounded more like his usual tone. "It sounds fun."

"You are a noble-born boy, Ffamran. It will be hard, for you," Zecht shook his head. "And now there will be a bounty on your head, for aiding and abetting the escape of a sentenced criminal."

"Do you think I did not think long about my choice?"

"I think you gave insufficient credence to the dictates of your heart," Zecht countered. "There may be hundreds upon thousands of people in this world, but to find love is, each time, a miracle."

"Ah, that," Ffamran's voice is hard, now. Dispassionate. "I assure you that was never an integral part of my decision to leave. Judge-Magister Gabranth has turned too much into a lapdog of Solidor."

"Aye, and that is why it may soon prove difficult for you e'er to be truly happy, leaving in such a way. Time may heal wounds, but it does not find ample replacements." Zecht shook his head, slowly, when Ffamran set his jaw. The young could be too rash; and then consequently, too stubborn.

-fin-

**Title**: Girl Talk [Fool's Gold  
**Day/Theme**: Dec 29/Oh, love comes and it goes. Where your heart stops  
**Series**: Final Fantasy XII  
**Character/Pairing**: Drace, Gabranth x Ffamran  
**Rating**: PG13  
**A/N**: Drace has a little talk with Ffamran.

"If you're going to start with 'You are underaged', I am going to ignore you for the week," Ffamran began, as he sat down to tea and scones with Drace in the Museum's Orion café.

Drace smiled, the angular lines of her otherwise too-serious face softening into beauty. "I would not dare, then."

"But you want to say it." Ffamran muttered mulishly, even as he buttered a chunk of scone and then scooped fresh, thickened cream over it.

"But I want to say it," she agreed, already working on a piece.

"I have liked him ever since I first saw him. It got… worse, you would say, when we made friends. And, well, I am going to be sixteen, in a few months."

"More than half a year, you mean."

"If you want to pick on the details, fine." Ffamran was the picture of defensive affront. "I am just quite tired of everyone's pity, or consternation, and most of all, their bloody well-intentioned advice. I am well aware that I am fifteen and that Gabranth is twenty-nine, that I just made Judge and he is a Judge-Magister. There."

"All right," Drace said, soothingly, then, "Eat your scone."

Ffamran did so, if a little grudgingly.

Finally, Drace sighed. "Well. He certainly does seem to love you. And I know Gabranth, he is the very soul of legality."

"'Tis hard enough even to get kisses," Ffamran agreed, deflating somewhat into his normal poise, as though grateful even for some form of congratulation. Drace pulled a face, as though she had not wanted to know that; Ffamran laughed at her, the underlying strain in his voice that had stemmed ever since he had chosen to tell his closest friends of the precise nature of his relationship with Gabranth disappearing.

"Personally," Drace grinned, privately glad for the good luck of her friends, to have found joy in each other, regardless of their ages or occupations. Matters of the heart were notoriously random, after all; who knew which two hearts in the vast array of souls could find this form of solace with one another. "I'm more afraid of what you would do to him, rather than vice versa. Gabranth is known to be very conservative. Whatever you did to even get him to agree to this…"

"Wouldn't you like to know," Ffamran smirked.

"I think not."

-fin-


	4. Threads Best Forgotten

Feb 15: candles for the dead

[A/N: Original work for Feb15 involved a Gabranth x Vayne that did not come out particularly interesting. My muse (or inspirational font, whatever you wish to call it) seems to currently be in post-traumatic shock from writing 10,000+ words on Tuesday to meet the Feb14 December Exchange deadline.

I would have liked to say that the best fiction I write comes after long breaks in writing, but that's probably not true (see Full Circle series for Beckington... which is probably the best fic I've written for last year in all fandoms... some of the others were admittedly drivel.

The consequence of having no particular sense of shame at publishing means that I've put online some remarkably terrible pieces that I'm too lazy to remove. See for example the over-long Guardian Angel: it would have been better in 5 chapters or less; some of the Basch x Balthier, the post-Nabudis sections of Promises AU). ;3

Re: the series 'Fool's Gold': I am aware that the time lines are fuzzy. I'm lazy to write them out a.la Primary Feathers. All the better to confuse you with, my dears.

Final Fantasy XII: Fool's Gold: Threads best forgotten

1 Drace

Drace sat in a corner of the Department canteen at lunch and watched the gray-blue pigeons native to Archades coo as they picked their way cautiously over the threshold between the slate of the mess hall and the swept sand of the courtyard.

Rotund fluffy bodies and a comical hobble-stride reminded her of the bush-grouse of Eian, and the now habitually thin line of her lips curved faintly into a smile (warm memories of home). The bland stew and the undercooked rice partially forgotten, she watched the pigeons pluck up courage in a group to hop over to search under benches for spilled food, wary of kicks and projectiles. The metaphor felt ironically amusing.

A voice broke into her thoughts that reminded her why this was exactly so. "'Ere now, sitting alone, are we?" Drace reflected that Cadet Ornist's voice also reminded her of home, in the sneering bray of her family's matriarch donkey.

"What of it?" she asked, as politely as possible, and remembered belatedly that talking back in this tone tended to be a poor idea. Ornist's beady eyes darkened, and beside him, his lackeys, the more heavily built Ensto and Saqe, frowned.

City-born boys who delighted in tormenting who they saw as weaker: in her case, a country-born commoner girl from a poor home, here partially on scholarship and partially on a communal fund from a proud, close-knit farming village that had insisted on helping her pay for tuition. Her slightly blocky figure, weathered face and work-roughened hands spoke of a childhood spent with cows, sheep and tills.

"Being aloof and all high and mighty, bumpkin bitch?"

Inwardly, Drace sighed. The jibes stopped hurting a month into enrolment, and it had already been six months. The problem was that anything she said or did from now would only result in physical consequences of fists and kicks, either now or later, or highly inconvenient pranks. "No. I merely wished to eat alone."

"Just listen to that tone, Ensto," Ornist drawled. "Like to be one of us city-folk, she does, all that perfect e-nun-ciation."

"Little bitch," Ensto agreed, and Saqe growled.

"I would not dream of it," Drace said, honestly. If not for how her possible eventual admission to the Bench and its paid tenure could mean a far better future for her village, or how she did not want to disappoint and waste the efforts of all her friends and family back in Eian, she would have far preferred to go home, long ago.

"That sounds just like provocative disrespect to me..." Ornist began, then yelped and leaped back. Blinking, Drace saw a plastic cup roll away from Ornist's perfectly servant-polished boots, and a steaming stain from the knee down. The scent of coffee. "Who...!"

"Oops." A mild drawl, somewhere behind Drace. She turned to see a boy, likely not more than thirteen or fourteen. "My fault. An accident."

Judging from where the boy stood, several paces away, it was definitely a deliberate throw. Ornist reached this conclusion at the same time as Drace, and his lip curled back. Ensto hurriedly put a hand on his arm. "Ornist! That's Ffamran _Bunansa_."

The name had a remarkable effect on Ornist: the man blinked, several times, then nodded and mumbled. "An accident. Right."

"Because I could not help but overhear the tone you were taking with the young lady," Ffamran said sweetly, "And I was so taken aback by the positive dearth of civility that I must have spilled my coffee."

"Uh. Of course, of course."

"But knowing you as a gentleman, who does not wish to embarrass the position of your house in the purveyance of Solidor, your words must have been spoken in jest, to illustrate boorishness of a sort that Prince Vayne does not condone."

"Of course. I was in jest." Ornist's eyes kept darting around the canteen, in fright. "Er... I have some pressing business..."

"No doubt," Ffamran said amiably, and the trio fled. The boy chuckled, and then approached the table. "May I sit here?"

"Er... sure," Drace still felt astonished at Ornist's reaction to the child, not to mention his presence here, and his dress. She had rather thought the age of admission to the Department was eighteen at minimum, and he wore the maroon jacket with its hawk's wing embroidery over the shoulders of a senior cadet.

"You'll have to forgive sorts like Ornist. They belong to the new noble families who bought their titles, and their scions tend to be born with pig's brains."

"I would not know," Drace said, before she could help herself. "Pigs are quite intelligent."

Ffamran stared at her for a moment, and then began to laugh. "No doubt. I must apologize to the pigs, then, for the insult. What is your name?"

"Drace. I am from Eian."

"Oh, the scholarship student?" Ffamran grinned impishly at her surprise. "Your admission essay on the application of legal conventions as influenced more by local interpretation than judicial discourse impressed my supervisor. Judge-Magister Zargabaath," he added, in explanation. "He made me read it."

"Oh." Drace was about to voice a vague need to apologize, when Ffamran continued.

"I rather liked the premise and the case studies, but I felt that you could have done better discussing the pervasiveness of popular judicial discourse on even what little of the media arrives in the country. As well as the issue of hearsay."

"Word limit," Drace admitted, now wondering exactly who the boy was.

He seemed to pick up on that fact (too sharp: a prodigy, perhaps. Only the most outstanding students drew Judge-Magisters as supervisors). "My name is Ffamran Bunansa. Please give little credence to the generally held opinion that my father is Vayne Solidor's best friend. They just tend to enjoy meeting up to quarrel over abstractions in the comfort of exclusive clubs."

The self-deprecating tone removed any potential interpretation of conceitedness, as well as explained Ornist's wariness. "I see. It is a pleasure to meet you. Truly. I was beginning to despair of this so-called urban civilized life."

"Always an honor to be of service to a lady," Ffamran inclined his head in a mock bow.

2 Gabranth

Gabranth wondered exactly what had possessed the normally liberal (read: radical, loose cannon and with a happy tendency to write dissenting opinions) Judge-Magister Zecht to write a joint judgment with the conservative (read: obsessively traditional, dour and black letter) Judge-Magister Zargabaath.

Surely it was to tax the collective patience of their respective assistant teams, in having to cross reference differing precedents and check each other's research, all done under the pall of increasing coolness between the Judge-Magisters in question. It was reputed that Zecht and Zargabaath were good personal friends, but Gabranth had yet to see evidence of it, especially in the increasingly biting letters they were exchanging about each other's premises.

And they had not even met up yet in person for discussion (now _that_ would have all the fun of outfield amputation surgery).

The problems were exacerbated by Judge-Magister Zargabaath's choice of primary liaison between his camp and Zecht's: an acid tongued boy that looked as though he was still too young yet even to sit for the Department enrolment exams, but by his black and gray uniform was shown to be a Judge.

"A freshman," Zecht had commented once, when the boy left with the latest missives and a choice sarcastic parting remark, something about shaky precedents and their system of filing. "Freshmen are at best mobile coffee machines. There is no call for him to be part of a damned _team_. Brat."

"Yes, sir," Gabranth said mildly, in the process of clearing out Zecht's increasingly cluttered office. As the chief aide of Zecht's team, not only was he technically in charge of supervising the other assistant Judges, it seemed that part of his duties also included having to listen to Zecht's occasional rants, and other miscellaneous duties, some of them terribly mundane. Zecht saw his chief assistant of several years as a sort of all-purpose aide, from supervisory duties, fielding calls from angry (ex) girlfriends, heading inspections, sorting out files, and in one occasion, going out to buy spicy fish soup.

Right now he had been instructed to find 'Zargabaath's bloody papers'. The older Judge's latest complaint was that Zecht had no reason to have acquired _all_ four printed copies of _State of Archadia v. Soldermann_, and Gabranth had been instructed to give Zargabaath half of the copies, in a remarkable display of graciousness (for Zecht. As to printed copies, the reader might argue that the Department had made forays into database intranet, but Zargabaath was notoriously distrustful of technology).

Unfortunately, Zecht's office (and the attached assistant chambers) was a monster by and of itself, and he could only find one copy (Zecht's desk) and a couple of cover sheets. Judge Ffamran had several stinging words to say about_ that _which had annoyed Zecht greatly.

"Tell you what, Gabranth," Zecht said, in a jovial voice that in Gabranth's experience heralded an unpleasant task, "Why not you tell Elai to take over for you, and head over to Zargabaath's office?"

"Why?" Gabranth blinked.

"Ostensibly to give him this..." Zecht pushed over a pile of haphazardly sorted papers: annotations of the _Rhone v State of Archadia_ appeal, it seemed, "And this..." a coffee stained clasped sheaf of papers of Zecht's drafted opinio juris. "And privately have a word with him about the suitability of his team, eh?" Wide, artfully innocent blue eyes. _You can do it._

"Er." Gabranth grimaced. It wasn't that Ffamran's role as liaison hadn't been a trial on both Zecht's and his legal team's nerves, but it was rather unprecedented for another Judge-Magister to criticize a colleague's choice of team. This was certainly an unpleasant task. "Sir, Ffamran Bunansa is generally seen as a prodigal student. Was. Enrolled at... twelve or thirteen, qualified at fifteen."

"No doubt, no doubt," Zecht said impatiently, "Or he'd just as like be assisting magisterial dronework. But fifteen is a little young to be part of a Judge-Magister's cabinet, would you not agree?" Zecht continued quickly after a moment's pause, as though Gabranth had. "Now move along."

"Sir," Gabranth said dryly, "May I ask why you agreed to write the joint judgment?"

Zecht blinked at him, then chuckled and gestured at few other orange-marked files. "I _am_ hearing two cases in tandem at the moment, boy! Zargabaath and I agree on fundamental principles about this one, just that we differ a little on the details. The joint judgment will save me time."

Gabranth nodded slowly, in obvious disbelief, but dropped the issue. He had unpleasant tasks to perform. If only it wasn't so that the traditional progression to a much coveted seat of Judge-Magister generally involved one serving time as a chief aide...

--

Zargabaath's 'camp' (as Zecht put it) seemed the absolute opposite. The Judge-Magister's assistant chambers and what he could see of the offices were obsessively neat. Folders were placed in labeled shelves in compactor-cases in a corner, there were marked cubicles with working assistants that ferried paper in between points and occasionally to the unmarked oak door that led to the Judge-Magister's office, and there was a sense of disciplined, professional calm.

In comparison, Zecht's offices tended to be a flurry of harried activity, with files stacked in corners or in chairs, shouts and laughter, the occasional bellow (Zecht's favored method of communication with his 'minions') from the Main Office, and the few pieces of paper strewn about the floor. There was also a large main table that occupied most of the room, where assistants worked at random positions.

A pretty blonde female Judge looked up from her desk nearest to the entrance to the chambers, where she had been carefully labeling discovery document copies. "May I help you?"

"Delivery and message for Judge-Magister Zargabaath from Judge-Magister Zecht," he said, pointing at the sheaf of papers in his hands.

"I'm afraid that Judge-Magister Zargabaath is in Court at the moment," the girl said politely, "You can leave the message with Ffamran."

"Ffamran?" Gabranth blinked.

"Our Chief Aide," the Judge said brightly, and turned to a passing male colleague. "Eyan, could you get Ffamran please? I think he went out for a short walk somewhere."

"Judge Ffamran is the _Chief Aide_?"

The female Judge and Eyan blinked, then grinned, as though as a secret joke. "One of _those_."

"One of those what?" Ffamran's drawl, behind him.

"Judge Gabranth to see you, Ffamran," the Judge said, with a wink. Ffamran sighed, as though a signal had been passed.

"Come on in, then."

--

"You can put the sheaf over there..." Ffamran pointed at a tray labeled 'IN' on Zargabaath's desk, "And I'll take the message for you."

"Actually, it has to be delivered personally to Judge-Magister Zargabaath," Gabranth hedged as smoothly as he could. "I will return some other time."

Close up, Ffamran smelled of gunpowder and spicy musk. Boyish good looks weren't marred by the wicked impishness of his grin. He found himself wondering exactly what Ffamran would look like in about five years, and firmly stopped the thought right there. Fifteen. Too young. He thought _maybe in three years_, then reminded himself firmly about the boy's viper tongue. No amount of good looks could be worth _that_.

"Let me guess. It concerns me?" Ffamran smirked, when Gabranth hesitated. "Your master isn't the first one, I can assure you. I really should get my list of qualifications typewritten and affixed to the entrance hall in large font."

That would be unlikely to soothe Zecht's temper any, but Gabranth decided on a polite, "I will assure Judge-Magister Zecht on that regard."

Ffamran looked at him with an odd gleam of calculation for a moment, then he said, with such an offhand tone that it was only afterwards that Gabranth cursed himself for accepting, "We will be working with each other for a while on this matter, and I have not had the opportunity to get to know you any better. What about you meet me for drinks after work?"

3 Zecht

Regardless of what either of their Chief Aides would think, Zargabaath and Zecht were actually good personal friends, and had gone out together on a celebratory dinner at the Esthene the night after the closure of the case. At petit fours and coffee, having spent the night pointedly not discussing anything about the law, Zecht said, dryly, "I had some reservations about that brat."

"I know," Zargabaath chuckled, mellowed by far too expensive food. "As you took every opportunity to harangue your own chief aide into expressing, repeatedly."

"But I have to admit he _is_... good. Of course, Gabranth is better."

"I feel as though we are comparing chocobos," Zargabaath said mildly. "I needed a replacement since Zia went into private practice, and he was the best in my division."

Zecht grinned. He enjoyed the other Judge's understated sense of humor. "Well then, mine is better than yours."

"Far be it for me to argue," Zargabaath said amiably. "But yes, Ffamran has some rough edges. He _is_ very spoiled. But his analysis is ingenious and he has a rare intuition. Give him a few years. I intend to get him to work in my team part time as well as handle lower Court cases on his own... that should help. I hear you are pushing for Gabranth to take over Satre as Judge-Magister, though."

"Satre's chief aide is as dumb as a post," Zecht sniffed. "Only selling point is that his family line is cousin to Solidor. Gabranth definitely deserves Judge-Magister, as hard as it would be for me to find another aide. Nobody else's aide is even remotely as suitable."

Dryly, Zargabaath said, "I do recall that was your opinion of Bergan."

"Hasn't changed," Zecht waved his hand dismissively. "Hell, you agree with me."

"Tentatively." Zargabaath sipped his coffee with immense dignity.

"So you can understand why I do not want yet another mentally challenged crony on the High Court."

"I also recall that Gabranth happens to be a friend of Lord Vayne and Lord Larsa. Retrieved from the Landis War, I believe. Solidor paid for his enrolment, tuition and living expenses."

"I've been working on it," Zecht shrugged. "But he has the selling point of not being mentally challenged."

"Just a crony."

"Can't be perfect." Zecht countered, though with a quick grin. "Bergan's aide is as stupid as his master, Ghis is not really willing to let go of his just yet since he's 'snowed under' with work, and yours is inexperienced. If we step out of a few centuries of accepted precedent and pick outside the pool we'll be up to our necks in letters of umbrage from the Senate."

"Hn. Are you trying to get me to back your endorsement to the Senate?" Zargabaath arched an eyebrow.

"Did I look like I was?" Zecht attempted his innocent expression, just for amusement purposes. Zargabaath sniffed.

"Very well. I agree with you, though I mislike it how the High Court seems to be taken over, of late, of people who have strong ties to Solidor. Bergan, now maybe Gabranth. I hear Lord Vayne is courting Ghis' favor, as well, just that Ghis is too busy at the moment."

"Too much his own mind, as well," Zecht shrugged. He neither liked nor disliked the very private Judge-Magister Ghis. "Even if he ostensibly starts working for Solidor it would only be out of convenience. Want to play a few hands of bridge after coffee?"

Zargabaath inspected his watch. "I am due back at the Department to review some affidavits and statements of claim. Another case begins hearings tomorrow."

"Pah. Let that brat of yours do it. If you have no time for bridge on a closing night you should start thinking about retirement."

4 Vayne

"Congratulations on your nomination," Vayne started by saying, once they had seated themselves for High tea. The afternoon was warm, and made sitting at the outdoor Lake balcony of the Solidor summer palace particularly exquisite. The polished marble was cool under his bare feet, and he absently adjusted the weight of his brother on his lap as he poured Larsa a cup of milk.

Gabranth nodded slowly from the other end of the round antique ryewood table, selecting a fresh macaroon. "Thank you, Lord Vayne. But it was scarcely a surprise. Ghis' favorite complaint is that he has far too much work, as the only Judge-Magister specializing in property law, that he cannot spare the time at this moment to train a successor to his chief aide. Zargabaath's chief aide is new. Zecht dislikes both Bergan's and Satre's aides, and Zargabaath tends to agree with him. I am the compromise."

"You are also the most senior choice after Ghis' aide," Larsa stretched out a short eight-year-old hand for a macaroon. His brother automatically picked one and handed it to him. "And you shortchange yourself."

"Have you been discussing policy with your brother, Lord Vayne?" Gabranth arched an eyebrow.

"Why not? He is the smartest aide _I_ have," Vayne said, with a quick grin down at the boy in question. Larsa blushed. "Speaking of which, I heard that you have made friends with Zargabaath's chief aide."

"In a manner of speaking," Gabranth said, unable to lie to his Prince. "He can be very annoying. But he is quite interesting to talk to."

"Unfortunately I do not have the patience to look very far past 'annoying'," Vayne said wryly, "But I do value his father's friendship. Try not to get too involved with the boy. He is notoriously difficult."

5 Ffamran

Ffamran gave the hangar a final searching glance, as the glossair rings of the 'appropriated' ship powered up, under Zecht's direction. He sighed, and closed his eyes, for a moment, as the edges stung; then he removed his rifle, and placed it on the ground. Removing the engraved red gold ring on his left hand took a little more effort; placing that on the ground next to the rifle, even more so. He studied his now naked hand in the unforgiving fluorescent light: where the ring had been, there was paler flesh. A white banded scar.

Years later he would wear colorful plastic rings over it (and, so it does not look too obvious, over the middle finger as well). Gaudy. A far cry from red gold.

A reminder of who he once was; what he now is.

-fin-


	5. Of One Mind

Fool's Gold: Of One Mind

[A/N: Inspiration after seeing photograph of Brazilian Mardi Gras costumes. Also inspiration from quote found on Daily Dish blog: that there are really four people involved in any sexual act between two people: the ones on the bed and the ones in their heads…

[Balthier, Basch

Basch woke to a languorous sense of fuzzy contentment. A warm hand was petting his shoulder, absently stroking the hard curves of muscle, and there was a not-unpleasant area of heat against his abdomen. A lower back. He made a low sound of simple pleasure, and curled around the source, pillowing his head on a thigh, purring when fingers moved from shoulders to the nape of his neck, to sift through short-cropped hair.

"Cat," Balthier murmured, the odd, soft note of affection reminding Basch wryly that he was lying on his left side, the shadows of the break of morn cloaking his scar. Warm, sated and grateful that he hadn't woken up to an empty bed (again, far too many times), he whispered something unintelligible (love talk) and curled his arm around the willowy waist.

Balthier had continued, as promised, to run; and he followed (there was some advantage, after all, to his brother's additional role as a head of military intelligence). Contriving reasonable business explanations to chase a sky pirate's tail had turned out to be easier than he had thought; and in any case, Archades did not quite need his time at present. Larsa had settled into the happy business of reformation, assisted by Zargabaath, and had dryly told Basch that he had far better talents to utilize than to serve as a bodyguard.

Certainly it had afforded him, to date, a wealth of perfect moments, in a life spent in their paucity; aye, even where such moments were manifestly, fundamentally false (they were no less beautiful in their mendacity).

Perfect moments are all too transient. Sarcasm marked the return of Balthier's normal self. "Are you not wasting State resources, Judge-Magister?"

"I _am_ on business," Basch reminded him mildly. He petted the opposite thigh with roughened fingers, hoping to lull Balthier back to his softer state, but there was little luck of that.

"Strange as it would seem to the Archadian people, of course."

"Actually, this has done far more than a year of learning my brother's habits to cement my persona in their eyes," Basch glanced up with a faint smile, to meet an arched eyebrow.

"Oh?" Fingers trailed from his scalp to his cheek, then to his neck. Distracting. Basch took a breath.

"Your… with my brother, it was not particularly a discreet…"

"I did not think it very public," Balthier blinked, genuinely taken aback.

"Archadians thrive on gossip, I am afraid," Basch said wryly. "On my first interview with the _Archadian Times_, ostensibly to discuss Larsa's new government, I spent half of it actually fielding skillful questions about you. It seems the general public thinks this relationship terribly romantic."

"A young Judge prodigy with a Judge-Magister, then a sky pirate with a Judge-Magister?" Balthier's expression was guarded, and for a moment Basch cursed his sleep-loosened tongue for upsetting his lover. Then the sky pirate began to chuckle, amused; the petting continued, under his arm, splaying over his chest, the thumb rubbing against a nipple.

Basch gasped, as fingers began to pinch. "A-aye."

"How curious." Balthier smirked, though he turned his eyes out over the window, unfocused.

--

[Gabranth

Gabranth supposed he had been subconsciously expecting Ffamran to do something outrageous since _State of Archadia v Whitaker_ had intensified proceedings. Too many late nights in a row, and he'd even had to resort to taking work home (Ffamran had moved in with him some time ago; it seemed only natural. The boy already spent much of his free time over, and his wardrobe and several personal effects had been taken over for convenience, long before even packing). Ffamran was terribly high maintenance on attention, after all…

Absorbed in reading statements of claim (… and in the alternative, even if the aforementioned Third Defendant is found legally culpable it seeks to name the First and Second Defendant as well as the Plaintiff contributorily negligent…) and didn't look up when Ffamran entered the living room. Gabranth was sprawled as comfortably as possible on the couch, stacked papers on the low table and on a footrest, making notes on a board. Coffee was in easy reach.

"I am attending the festival," Ffamran began by saying. Footsteps told Gabranth the boy was headed for the door. "Meeting Drace."

"All right. Have fun." Gabranth said absently, marking out an inconsistency in the statement with a red pen. "The… fancy dress festival?"

"Astonishing. You actually knew?" Ffamran sounded amused. "And here I thought that latest shocker of a personal injury claim would insulate you from real life for months."

"I _do_ have female staff, Ffamran," Gabranth pointed out. The girls had been talking just about non-stop about costumes for a month. It seemed that it was a fairly important occasion in Archades, for the young. Gabranth had gone to the festival (dragged along by Solidor scions) in his first and second year in Archades, and found it colorful but chokingly crowded. "What are you wear…"

He stopped short, openmouthed, having looked up briefly from his notes. Ffamran arched an eyebrow, not a hint of mischief on his face. "No particular theme, I am afraid."

_That little brat_… Ffamran was dressed (if the word was even applicable) in (by Gabranth's standards) almost nothing. A pale orange sleeveless vest stopped short at his ribcage, baring pale skin adorned by a chunky blue-silver cross and delicate gold chains. Gold armlets and anklets bore gorgeous long pheasant feathers, honey-hued and black-barred. Satiny cream cuffs adorned wrists and calves, patterned with iridescent thread that brought out the black painted spirals on the back of his palms. And (good Gods) only a short loincloth of the same hue as the vest, dusted at the edges with soft white fur; really two pieces of cloth joined at the upper tips, baring flesh up to slender hips.

"You are going out in _that_?" Sheer disbelief.

Ffamran looked down at his clothes, then back at Gabranth, hazel eyes narrowed as though puzzled. "I checked the weather forecast. 'Tis quite warm."

"You… that is hardly _decent_."

Ffamran grinned, amused. "Everybody will be dressed like this."

"Only the _women_."

"'Tis a fair country. Check the constitution."

"At least wear some breeches."

"You're blocking the door," Ffamran said dryly, and Gabranth realized that reflexively he somehow was, statements of claim all but forgotten somewhere on the couch, now standing between Ffamran and the exit. There was some sort of scent; something citrus. Gabranth's mouth began to water. This close, that loincloth definitely _was_ bloody indecent. "I'm going to be late."

"You're not going until you wear something decent."

"What are you, my parent?" Ffamran folded his arms and stuck out his tongue obstinately. "Make me."

"Your _lover_, and gladly," Gabranth growled, and the boy let out a muffled yelp at being grabbed and forced up against the nearest wall, though he opened his mouth willingly enough to plundering tongues, turning pliant after the third, hands stroking Gabranth's cheeks, neck, then began to work on the buttons of his shirt. Gabranth nipped hard on a lower lip (another yelp, this one breathy) and surveyed lust-dark eyes and swollen lips with dark satisfaction (and some suspicion). "Did you plan this?"

"What, do you think I conjured the costume?" Ffamran was being purposefully evasive, his smile sly, as he began to grind his barely-clad rump over Gabranth's firming arousal.

"I meant the result," Gabranth said reproachfully, with another hard nip, this time on an ear lobe, then pressed a kiss over a delicate jaw. The boy shivered, with a mewl, but got no further attention: the Judge-Magister kept him pinned, but drew his head back to regard Ffamran with narrowed eyes. "This."

"Does it matter?" Ffamran purred, running a pink tongue over his abused lower lip, as he deftly pulled Gabranth's shirt free of breeches to run small hands admiringly over hard muscle; the older man bit down an answering purr of his own. "You'll simply have to make it up to me, for missing the festival."

Gabranth sighed. There was no way he would be able to get any work done for the rest of the night, now, not with this tempter in his arms whispering salacious suggestions against his cheek. The sound, however, seemed to annoy his lover: Ffamran frowned, and bared his teeth. "Of if 'tis too much of a chore, you _could_ simply let me go."

"'Tis a little late for that, I should think," Gabranth said, surprised that his voice could still sound so mild. Surely Ffamran could feel the hard ridge pressed up against his rump: no further explanation was really required, was it? His hand drifted down from a bared upper thigh under the loincloth in question, and… Gabranth blinked as he felt something silky. A tight, narrow band of cloth, that extended over hips to what was more or less a pouch, filled now with the boy's own hardening need.

The Judge-Magister was dimly aware next of a simultaneous, dizzy heat that seemed to ignite through every vein in his body, the growl that marked a concerted attack on Ffamran's neck (delighted, sly laugh, at teeth and tongue) and how his own trousers seemed suddenly all too confining. "You _definitely_ planned this," he managed to grit out, distracted by hungry mewls and fingers lightly scratching over his shoulder and abdomen.

"All things considered," Ffamran's grin was really now a self-satisfied smirk, "It seems to have turned out very well. Really, with a young, handsome and accommodating other half, you should do better than sit about all night reading legal documents."

Before Ffamran could feed his own ego any further, Gabranth tugged the delicate chin up to a bruising kiss, sucking hard on the lower lip, then thrusting his tongue into the warm cavern (citrus, as well), to tangle with the boy's; curling one arm over the slender waist for support, the other stroking the ball of his thumb over the silk-wrapped arousal, circling over the wet spot. Ffamran mewled urgently, again, shivering, eyes unfocused when Gabranth pulled back. "Take leave tomorrow."

"Hn? Why?" The boy arched then, with a gasp, when Gabranth simultaneously tugged at the bulge in his hands just as he rolled his hips upwards. "Oh."

"You'll need it," Gabranth promised, raking narrowed eyes over Ffamran's increasingly disheveled frame.

The boy merely laughed with merry mischief; though the sound hitched when the Judge-Magister squeezed. "Aah… t'would be well worth it, then."

Gabranth shook his head angrily, as the slyness in Ffamran's voice finally filtered through his lust-blanketed mind. He disliked being manipulated in any shape or form. "I truly should…"

"You truly should carry me to the bedroom and _fuck me_," Ffamran cut him off with a lazy drawl and a buck that made the older man hiss a warning and growl at the salacious way the boy drew out the last two words. "Preferably several times."

Someday, Gabranth thought, as he found himself doing just that: carrying the slighter body to the bedroom, dumping him none too gently on the bed and proceeding to ravish that willing, wicked mouth, the boy would probably be the end of him.

--

[Noah

"What did you hit Gian for?" Basch finally asked, when they took a break, rolling to his feet and stretching. Both twins had been banished to courtyard scrubbing duty, in the night, without supper, for an apparently unprovoked attack on another initiate. Or at least, Noah had been banished; Basch had naturally followed.

Noah glowered at him over the wet cobblestones, sighed, and sat down heavily onto crossed legs, tossing the rag into the pail. "He deserved it."

"I cannot decide that until I know what it was, can I?" Basch asked, with a lopsided smile. His twin stared at him for a moment, then glanced down at his fingers.

"Well. I suppose that on the face of it, his words did not merit me breaking one of his teeth."

"Certainly father thought so," Basch glanced up to his right as he did so. A fire was burning in the window of the large office on the fourth floor of the Chapterhouse: their father was ostensibly working late. Sometimes he saw a silhouette pass over the window: as much as Drac fon Ronsenburg was to be impartial in all Chapterhouse matters, his instinctive role as a father sometimes took precedence over his duty as the Master of the Knight-Order of Landis.

Noah sighed loudly. "All right. You remember that girl, Elia. Elin. Something."

"Elianna, yes," Basch shook his head, slowly. "I also remember that she was beholden to Gian."

"Hardly beholden, she told me," Noah corrected Basch sharply. "I would not touch someone who is spoken for." When his brother diplomatically kept his peace, he added, "Gian was upset, and spoke words to me. I ignored him until he predicted in the crudest possible way that the two of us are so close that someday, either we will splinter violently, and over a woman, or that we would engage in… unnatural relations." This last was said flatly, but with a low thrum of still-remembered fury.

"Oh." Basch blinked. He flexed cramping muscle, then glanced back up at their father's office. "If I hit Gian tomorrow, do you think provocation would still apply?"

"Hardly," Noah said, but he stifled a chuckle, his good humor returning. "And I have had enough of scrubbing stones for a night."

"Just you watch," Basch took up a rag again, and dipped it into the bucket of fouling water. "Once Eare goes home, father will sneak us out."

"Will we ever fight over… that, though?" Noah's voice was troubled, as if trying to grasp a future that he did not want.

"Ready when you are," Basch countered, ostensibly cracking his knuckles, and got a dirty rag flung at him for his trouble.

-fin-


	6. In Uniform

Fool's Gold: In Uniform

[A/N: I wanted to draw non-Judge-Magister art. As you can tell, I DO read Trinity Blood, and coming home today I watched a Bollywood movie. Those scarves are gorgeous. :O I am however unable to conclude whether Shah Rukh Khan is hot. This fic was written for aefallen and risax, and any other person out there who has been unlucky enough to study torts law's eggshell principle.

Gabranth felt sure that he had never been attracted to anyone wearing armor before.

It wasn't only the connotations of work and war; it was the scent of metal and grease and leather, the clanking noises and the seething shifts of plates against plates, even oiled, and the uncomfortable knowledge from personal experience that it would take far too much effort and time to extricate the person.

Ffamran, however… (and there was so much of 'however' and 'but' in this… arrangement. A child, really, at fifteen, but far too precocious; his career and his obligations to Solidor, however the insistent dictates of his heart) Gabranth had to admit that even though Ffamran's armor likely had to be specially fitted, since at fifteen the boy had yet to move fully into his growth spurt, despite that (or perhaps because of it) it suited him to the extent that he somehow managed to wear the standard armor with flair. Even the white scarf that indicated his rank as a chief aide, around his neck, and the cream scarf under his belt that displayed the symbol of Zargabaath's division, only softened the harsh edges of the embossed silversteel plates, where on other male Judges the incongruity of soft cloth only looked embarrassingly feminine.

"You're staring," Ffamran said dryly, breaking him out of his circular thoughts.

"Ah… I beg pardon." Gabranth made a show of shifting the weight of the heavy files he was carrying. "I did not have much sleep." He infused just the right amount of underlying reproach into that to distract Ffamran from any further needling on having caught the older Judge daydreaming.

"Aye," Ffamran grinned. "If you had only given in, no doubt you would have saved time."

Gabranth sighed, a long-suffering sound. Last night had been spent fending off Ffamran's increasingly determined if inexperienced advances, whilst trying to polish his draft judgment for Judge-Magister Zecht's perusal. "You are _fifteen_."

"And?"

Gabranth looked around them quickly, on reflex, but the corridors of the Justice Department were empty at this time of day; most cadets and Judges being at breakfast. "It happens to be illegal."

"As you have told me," Ffamran agreed, with a mischievous, playful grin that made Gabranth dig his gauntleted fingers more firmly against the edges of the thick file in his arms to distract himself from the memory of the taste of soft lips. "Come now, Gabranth. You know those mock judgments the Magisters ask us to write are really only for our benefit. Certainly none of those I have written for Zargabaath have ever shown up in _his_ judgments."

"Perhaps they take the gist of it and refine it," Gabranth said, diplomatically. "And in any regard, 'tis good practice. Chief aides do usually translate into Judge-Magisters, in time."

"In Zargabaath's case, 'in time' was two decades," Ffamran pointed out, as they passed Ghis' bureau chambers, the young Judge jerking the thumb of his free hand towards the closed oak doors. "And no doubt the poor soul in there would be another two, maybe three."

"Besides, Judge-Magister Zecht finds it useful to discuss my draft."

"No doubt." Ffamran's voice was a little harder, and Gabranth hid a grin even as he made a mental note, underlined, to find some caffeine to still his loosened tongue. The genesis of a relationship (he would admit that word, at least, however ill-advised) in this particular case had brought in Ffamran's side a sort of nervous possessiveness that had an adorable amount of irrational jealousy. "Though I disagree with your interpretation. The causal link between the injury suffered and the claims seems tenuous at best."

"One takes the subjects of one's wrongs as one wrongs them," Gabranth shrugged.

"Stop quoting judgments from memory." Ffamran elbowed Gabranth in the arm. "Seriously. You need…"

"To get more _sleep_," Gabranth interrupted quickly, before the younger Judge could proposition him in public. Ffamran smirked, showing that preemption was just in time.

"Think of it as training. Were you not nominated for Judge-Magister, subject to further review? They get hardly any sleep at all."

"But in the course of doing work," Gabranth pointed out, as they rounded a corner. The double doors to Zargabaath's bureau chambers could be seen, partially open, indicating that the Judge-Magister had yet again done an all-nighter and was likely asleep now at his desk, expecting coffee and breakfast. By the wry grimace on Ffamran's face, he could tell the boy knew that much.

"You should take the subjects of your affection as you find them," Ffamran drawled, with a stress on _take_ that made Gabranth narrow his eyes.

"Misquoting judgments? Judge-Magister Zargabaath would tan your young hide," he replied, with an equal and reproachful stress on _young_.

"They call misquoting 'research' nowadays, I hear," the young Judge stopped, a few paces away from chambers, his playful tone at odds with his sudden serious expression, as he looked Gabranth over as though for the first time that morning, no doubt taking in the half-heartedly combed hair, the darkening hollows under bleary, caffeine-deprived eyes. More quietly, he added, "Sorry. I will not bother you again whilst you work, if you so wish."

The nervous possessiveness was coupled also with occasionally rare and random bouts of insecurity, it seemed (which likely fed said jealousy). Gabranth's unfeigned smile was warm, in the soft sunlight of the break of day that stretched their shadows far under them, and he reached out to gently grasp one delicate, gloved hand, bringing it up to his lips to brush a kiss over fitted finger scales.

Ffamran grinned impishly, when Gabranth let go, feigning mock horror. "Why, Judge Gabranth! What if anyone were to see?"

Gabranth's reply was cut short by Zargabaath's austere voice, from the doorway to his chambers, husky and grumbling from sleep. "If the both of you are _quite_ finished wasting away the morning, I require the services of my chief aide."

"Coffee and croissant?" Ffamran asked promptly. "And the files on the Fabringan Diocese Principle with annotations. And I do hope you did not sleep in that armor."

Zargabaath nodded, ignoring the last statement, running a hand through short-cropped hair and yawning, his horned helm cradled in the crook of his arm. "Get to it, then prepare notes for interlocutory proceedings, matter X-one-four-eight-seven."

"Slave driver," Ffamran said, a little too loudly, even after Zargabaath had already ambled back into chambers, but further sniping was stifled when Gabranth pressed a brief, self-conscious kiss to parted lips.

"See you tonight." Gabranth inclined his head then, and stepped politely around an openmouthed Ffamran. Kisses on fingers were one thing, but Gabranth was normally leery enough of much else even in private. The prospect of stifling even a hint of Ffamran's playful personality, however, on a misconception of disapproval… and the boy was grinning, if with a smile that was just a little on the silly side. Gabranth arched an eyebrow, and pointed silently at the open doors to chambers.

"Not you, too," Ffamran grumbled, though his eyes remained soft. "Gabranth, I…"

"_Judge_ Ffamran." Zargabaath's raised voice rasped sharply over what Gabranth had thought, for a heart-in-mouth moment, would be words not even a child prodigy had been able to say, so far, that would define the rest of what they were. "You were not picked out of the cream of your standard so that you could stand about corridors when three matters are pending and talk about moonshine."

Ffamran pouted, the moment instantly gone, and rolled his eyes. "They get so bloody crabby in their twilight years."

"Less of that tongue and more productivity, _boy_."

Gabranth turned to leave the two of them at it, shaking his head slowly. Today was Tuesday, and Zecht was just as like to be late, what with the new girlfriend (while still not having actually 'ended' matters with the 'old' girlfriend… Gabranth supposed that he could expect to field a few angry phonecalls in the next week). His mind filled with collating the day's schedule, Gabranth flinched when Ffamran darted in front of him, metal clanking, and pulled his chin down into a hard kiss, the boy's tongue flicking briefly over his lower lip.

He felt the ghost of a quick smile, against his lips, then the breath that shaped words he forced himself not to hear (wrong setting, and all too hurried), and whispered _again_ and _later_ against the gloved fingers that traced the edges of his mouth.

-fin-


	7. Then, Now, Forever

February 27: thieves and liars

[A/N: Haven't been very good at keeping up with 31days. exhausted from runs: the few attempts I've made to write for themes petered out into unpublishable rubbish (and you know for me that's a really, really low bar, given some of the junk I've turned out and my philosophy re: online publishing: that there's always someone out there who's published stuff worse than my 8yr old nieces can write, see 50+ of XD).

Fool's Gold: Then, Now, Forever

[Between then and forever

"It fails to stand to reason how you were involved with Gabranth for three, four years, and he is still unable to find you on his home ground."

A familiar voice, measured, acerbic and just a little pedantic, made Balthier pause in the middle of his warm honey-cake and twist in his chair. Zargabaath attempted to smile thinly and reproachfully, but the humorless line soon quirked into a brief curl of old affection, as the elderly Judge-Magister settled with the unhurried grace of the ageing into one of the cafe's elaborate designer chairs.

Four years, and Cafe Omedia was unchanged saved for its waitressing staff: the same portly cook-and-owner and her rake-thin head waiter husband, the same aromatic, strong espresso, the same earthy menu, the same copse of lovingly tended dwarf willow trees that framed all of the cafe's eight outdoor tables. And his favorite, of course: fluffy buttery sponge cake filled with warmed honey.

Zargabaath was dressed discreetly (for the old Judge, anyway), in a gray vest over a cotton blue shirt tucked with obsessive neatness into military storm-gray breeches. A little incongruously, he wore the etched greaves and boots of his Magister armor, and carried his blade at his hip. Zargabaath looked a little thinner, and had somewhat less hair than Balthier remembered; a few more wrinkle lines and crow's feet, but the sharp eyes were as bright and piercing as ever. Being the sole object of their scrutiny remained disconcerting, but he found he did not need to force a grin.

Despite four years spent more or less under Zargabaath's uncompromising and occasionally mercurial thumb as his chief aide, the Judge-Magister had been amongst those whose company he had missed the most keenly, in his years of self-imposed exile (freedom). "Good day to you too, sir."

"You never called me 'sir' even when exhorted, years ago," Zargabaath snorted, waving over a waiter and ordering latte. "But back to my point. You used to take any amount of your favorite food to chambers, despite my wishes, and you have the habits of a cat. To-day is honey-cake day, for Omedia."

Balthier nodded, arching an eyebrow in question, then grinned and inclined his head to a passing aide he remembered from Zargabaath's bureau: she chuckled, smiled, bowed to the Judge-Magister, and continued walking up to join the growing queue for cakes. "That is beside the point. I never took any of such food… home, and with differing schedules we hardly ever used to meet for luncheon. Though… Amelia over there has been the oh... fifth or so person to have greeted me here today."

"Because Lanse fairly burst into chambers declaring that you were here, about a couple of hours ago," Zargabaath said dryly. "Everybody does still miss you."

"Who is the new Chief Aide?" Balthier inquired, over a sticky mouthful of cake, glad to realize that those words affected him not at all.

"Tillian."

"Ah. Still with that... donkey of a boyfriend?"

Zargabaath looked disapproving, his brows stitching together, at this casual discussion of someone else's personal life. "I would _not_ know. If so, it is not impinging on her efficiency. But she is nowhere on your level, in terms of analysis and intuition. When there was next a vacancy on the Bench, I was going to nominate you, then."

"Nice to know," Balthier grinned, his impishness showing an apparent total disregard of that information (days that could have been). "And here I thought that nominating Judge-Magisters who still possessed full heads of hair was terribly controversial." Before Zargabaath could make any comment about Drace, or worse, _Gabranth_, Balthier hastily added, "I thought you were very busy."

"I am, and no thanks to your party," Zargabaath sniffed. "With three of us gone. Much of the work is actually being remitted to County."

"What a scandal. Wet-under-the-ears Judges delivering decisions."

"Necessary means. It has worked out surprisingly well, but then we have had some years to refine it. When Zecht... well. When that happened. And then Gabranth." Zargabaath, despite his military appearance, could be sly when he wanted to: Balthier watched the enigmatic expression carefully and knew he had to look where he trod.

"I thought Gabranth was quite efficient," he shrugged carelessly.

"Up until you left, he was. Then he became inconsistent, unpredictable, and it worsened after the Dalmascan war. Now he seems... irrational. But with the dearth on the Bench at the moment, and the upheaval with the arrest and dissolve of the Senate, contesting lifelong tenure would be impossible."

_Inconsistent, unpredictable_. Balthier told himself quietly that this did not change things, and knew it true, even though his annoying sense of curiosity made him ask, "It is hard to imagine him as irrational."

"After you left he was unable to function properly in his role for weeks. He only seemed to pull himself together when Lord Vayne, apparently, spoke to him. After that... well, his judgments were on the whole no less brilliant than before, but he developed a vicious tendency to verbally rip apart submissions that he felt did not meet his standards, and that meant most."

"He was not so kind even before to submissions as such."

"To give you an idea," Zargabaath added unhurriedly, "Even Ghis has spoken to him about it once, afterwards. Drace, many times. And now each time there is even a hint that you may be in Archades he disappears from the Bench."

"What do you expect me to do?" Balthier drawled, a little annoyed to realize that he found the attention flattering, as much as it was hardly surprising. "And I am surprised he has not tried asking anyone from chambers."

"He did. It frustrates him that several certainly have more than a good inclination of your whereabouts but would not tell him," Zargabaath raised an eyebrow when Judge Amelia bustled past, coffee and cake in her hands and a fleeting warm smile of farewell for Balthier. "Do you think any of my associate team in chambers would betray you? Or your friends in Drace's?"

"Some may not see it as betrayal," Balthier ventured, though a small smile indicated that he certainly saw Zargabaath's point.

"As to what I would have you do…" Zargabaath sighed, heavily. "I gather you met with him, 'ere meeting with your father. After four years."

"Aye," Balthier finished the rest of his honey-cake and took to licking fingers, unashamed of the apparent immaturity, already used to the carefree lack of a need to present himself formally.

"Before that, well, I would not say he had gotten over you, but he was certainly… functioning. Now he seems to have almost returned to the first few weeks upon finding you gone. That state of mind." Zargabaath was clearly uncomfortable with the subject. "And each time there is a hint from sources in the aerodrome that your _Strahl_ may have docked… but of course given the Aerodrome Act the Moogles deny official investigation into private hangars without sufficient warrant…"

"'Tis not my fault that my current… employer sees fit now and then to venture into Archades on business," Balthier waved a hand dismissively, his expression carefully schooled, even as his heart began to ache.

"There is no call for your continued estrangement. Zecht wrote to me more than two years ago, expressing that he held no ill will towards myself, or Gabranth, or Drace." Piercing eyes made Balthier finally avert his gaze to his coffee, and the old Judge added, more softly, "And I doubt 'tis only your employer's business that takes you so often of late to Archades."

"I have another," the sky pirate said tightly, even as he knew this was not a logical reply.

"Aye," Zargabaath said dryly, "The man's twin brother."

Stung, Balthier snapped, "Why are you concerned? The case load?"

"Not that," Zargabaath said reproachfully, "Gabranth remains my friend. As are you. And he has ever been leashed to Solidor. Lord Vayne grows impatient with his… state of mind. I fear soon he may be given an assignment where he may… harm himself, if he remains so. I ask you simply to speak to him, longer, and frankly. Much of what hurt him was your leaving with only a short letter and not a word further for so many years."

The ache was worsening, and had spread to his throat. Balthier finished his espresso, and curled back in his chair. If he closed his eyes now, they would sting. "Gabranth is a man grown, and a Judge-Magister at that. He needs to learn how to control his emotions."

"I see I cannot persuade you," the old Judge lowered his eyes to his latte. "Ffamran… in this life, some things…"

"You cannot persuade me," Balthier interrupted, and then tempered his cold tone to a good humor that was not as feigned as he thought it would be. "Come. Let us speak of other things. How fares the wife?"

--

[Forever

Basch observed Chief Aide Trillian, of Judge-Magister Zargabaath's legal team, come into his chambers and pull Balthier aside for the second time that day to discuss some legal matter or other with a wry smile. Before Trillian, in the course of the week so far of Balthier's visit, there had been any number of the old Judge's team who had shown up on consultation, despite Balthier's repeated assertions that he was four years out of date and, in any case, was retired, an outlaw, and here on holiday. Zargabaath could be a sly old fox when he put his mind to it: the assertions were getting shorter, and the discussions longer.

Balthier finally wandered back to him, looking a little annoyed as he slumped into the cleared guest chair before Basch's desk, watching the Judge-Magister perusing a stack of typewritten transcripts with half-lidded eyes. "Could you tell Zargabaath to stop?"

"Stop what?" Basch asked, innocently, as he turned a page, not really paying attention to the matter at hand. Balthier could be a force of distraction by himself simply by sitting still in a corner.

"Sending people here to talk to me about this and that," Balthier said irritably, "I feel like cutting short my visit."

Which was what the sky pirate had said the first day into Zargabaath's latest tactic to recover his Chief Aide, Basch thought privately, but managed to keep his expression wooden. "I will speak with him if you wish."

"Good. Because I have no intention to return to judicial life," Balthier said firmly, slouching further in the chair and crossing his boots over part of Basch's desk.

"Evidently." Basch said, turning his eyes ostensibly back down to his papers. "Since you value your freedom."

"Aye, and…"

"And of course you have already firmly decided that an aimless life is what you desire."

"That is not…"

"Not to mention all the attention and status from being Chief Aide, and the presence of all your friends in Zargabaath's team and various others, matters not a whit at all compared to the freedom of the open sky."

Balthier opened his mouth, closed it, and then narrowed his eyes in a dangerous glare. Basch smiled at him over the edges of page forty-seven of the transcript notes, serenely. "I refuse to be drawn out on this."

"Of course," Basch allowed himself a grin.

The sky pirate growled, then added, a little petulantly. "I _am_ serious. I will not come back. The workload here is unbelievable. I much prefer waking and sleeping whenever I want and living outside of six minute brackets."

"You always wake two hours or so after the dawn," Basch said, very mildly, "And you sleep about four hours after the dusk. It _may_ only be coincidence that these are the hours that Judges keep, of course. Several times during our journey you could be heard exclaiming over boredom."

"Aye, well, being tied to a group of…"

"_Also_, I spoke to Reddas, and he said once you alternated between restlessness after heists, or lazing about in Balfonheim complaining to all and sundry that…"

"You know," Balthier muttered, barely audible, "You can be just as annoying as your brother."

Basch stifled a chuckle, adding gently, "I am sure Zargabaath would welcome even your presence part-time."

"Part-time outlaw, part-time Judge? How curious," Balthier grinned, his mischief returning at the incongruity.

"Fran said she felt your heart was no longer in the… thievery."

"And there's a difference between the both of you," the sky pirate rolled his eyes. "If he wanted something, he would dash here and there until he found it. If you want something, well! You approach it as though it was a problem of war that wanted patient strategy, gathering allies along the way."

"I hope to think the results differ." It was beginning to be a strain to keep his voice bland, but experience told him Balthier was remarkably prickly on the matter of his late brother and this.

He caught only the faintest hint of a faraway gleam, in chestnut eyes, then Balthier turned away, his posture archly stiff. "Both equally _annoying_."

Basch chuckled then, if a little nervously, a weight he had not realized about his heart slowly ebbing. It was good to know. _Equally_. More than he would have asked for (even as faint a hint as this). "I do believe I see Judge Amelia at the door."

"If you are laughing at me, Judge-Magister, your bed will be quite lonely tonight."

"I would not dare," Basch said, quickly hiding his mouth behind pages of cross-examinations.

--

[Then

Gabranth found release in a long, low groan, his head lolling back against the cushioned headboard, one hand clutching at a pillow, the other tense against cropped chocolate hair, and he shuddered, choking for breath, as his lover continued to suck, greedy and loud, delicate fingers pressed against his hips. An ecstasy he would never tire of, but today, tonight, something felt a little off. He wished he could push away that irritating thought, as Ffamran gave his prick a final, slow lick and glanced up at him smugly, the edges of a pink tongue sliding over his lips.

When his muscles finally agreed to answer his mind again, he pulled the boy up against him, into his lap, to taste himself (bitter) on his lover's smile, and muttered, "And yourself?"

"Mm." Ffamran wriggled on his lap, bucking his own hard arousal against Gabranth's belly. "No matter."

Something was _definitely_ off. Gabranth frowned, though he stroked a hand downwards to curl around the heat he felt against him, squeezing gently. "No matter?"

"Well. I doubt you are up to responding adequately as yet," Ffamran's response was just a little too hasty, even as he purred and bucked into the other man's grip. "Being middle-aged and all."

"Thirty-two is hardly middle-aged," Gabranth nipped a lower lip sharply, already swollen from languid kisses. He felt that he should have realized something was wrong from the beginning: tonight had been slow, with none of Ffamran's normal impatience; indeed, the boy himself had been lengthening the foreplay, taking his time to pet and explore where he would normally have been writhing against Gabranth and begging for surcease.

When Ffamran didn't retort or retaliate from the bite, instead sucking absently on the reddened mark, his eyes distracted, hands stealing up Gabranth's shoulders, the Judge-Magister closed his eyes and pulled the warm body gently down under his chin, cradling him and stroking his shoulder. "Something you wish to tell me, Ffamran?"

The boy flinched almost imperceptibly, even as he shook his head against Gabranth's chest (sweat, and the after-tremors of climax). "No."

It had to be something truly momentous, if Ffamran was unable even to exercise his considerable skills at dissemination. At a loss of something to say, Gabranth resorted to a knee-jerk male response to a Potential Relationship Issue: he made a noncommittal, back-of-the-throat sound, and murmured, "I love you."

"I know," Ffamran said, and the misery in the words stunned him for a long, speechless moment.

Gabranth turned up the boy's chin, sure that he would now be unable to hide his concern. "Ffamran. Did something happen today?"

Ffamran stared at him for a long moment, then he shook his head, slowly. "Not today."

"Then…" Gabranth searched his memory, and decided to start on the most likely, as much as it had proved a mood-killer before; but in any case, Ffamran's arousal was fast ebbing, and this was far more important. "It is about Zecht?"

Ffamran's reply took a heartbeat too long, and he did not meet Gabranth's eyes. "No."

"Look at me if you want to lie to me," Gabranth meant that to come out gentle, but there was a note of reproach. Zecht's trial was in two days, and Ffamran's mood (and Drace's) had worsened steadily as the days passed.

"All right," Ffamran twisted in his lap to straddle it, his eyes flashing anger. "It _is_ about Zecht. He will be executed in two days."

"His _trial_ is in two days," Gabranth corrected. "It will likely take weeks in deciding. And he has a chance of…"

Ffamran voiced a decidedly filthy expletive that had Gabranth raising both eyebrows. "A sham trial. Who is on the Bench? You, Ghis, Bergan, Zargabaath, Drace. Who has accused Zecht? Lord Vayne-bloody-Solidor. Three votes to hang him. What matters if it is two days, or a few weeks? Soon you will have a part in the murder of my friend. _Your_ friend, _your_ mentor." The bitterness in Ffamran's voice was painful to hear, even as it in turn angered Gabranth.

"And you are so sure where I stand?"

"Look at me and tell me that you are not Solidor's pet," Ffamran replied harshly.

"Lord Vayne is my benefactor, but…"

"When he whistles, you come running," Ffamran shook his head slowly, with a disgust so palpable it was like a slap across his cheek. Stunned speechless for the second time that night, Gabranth didn't move when his lover shook his head again, climbed off him, and curled up on the edge of the bed. It was a long night, with both of them pretending to sleep.

Gabranth was more than ready to make some sort of apology in the morning, anything that would absolve him of his lover's painful contempt and ire, but Ffamran surprised him by apologizing first, his eyes reddened and his kisses conciliatory. "I was in a poor mood last night. I beg pardon if my words hurt you."

"No. You were right. It may well be that my loyalty to Lord Vayne is too unquestioning. But I assure you he has made not even a breath of command in this…"

Ffamran's lip curled, then the boy seemed to relax with an effort. "The whole point is for him _not_ to, and see which of you will bend which way."

"I cannot go to trial convinced of Zecht's…"

"No, you cannot," Ffamran agreed, and there was an odd pity in his voice, his eyes over-bright. Gabranth leaned up to kiss one shuttering lash, and tasted salt. Tears. When he took in a breath, Ffamran said, in a very small voice, "Do not talk about evidence, or due process, or judgments, or chances. Better yet, just say nothing."

Gabranth hesitated, then nodded, and pulled the boy into his arms, stroking the curve of his back, feeling more than listening to tiny sobs stifled against his skin and hating himself for being unable to think of anything near appropriate to say. All too quickly, Ffamran twisted away, rubbing his eyes, his expression now unreadable. "You had better get changed. The case load is spreading out, I hear."

"And you," Gabranth said, with a glance at the clock. "Would you prefer if I called a cab? Judge-Magister Zargabaath…"

"Can wait a little later for his coffee. I will head to the Department when I am a little calmer." Ffamran's smile was all too feigned. "You go first."

Doubtfully, Gabranth went through the process of washing up and getting changed into his heavy plate armor. Ffamran watched him all the while, from the bed, sheets pulled around his waist, expressionless, unnervingly so. Disconcerted, Gabranth finally leaned down to kiss him, then said, forcing a lighter tone, "Free for dinner tonight?"

"Tonight? Um." Ffamran blinked rapidly, then shrugged. "Why not."

"Where?"

"Wherever." A pause. "Meet me here."

"Not in the Department?" Gabranth arched an eyebrow.

"I am not about to spend even dinner in full armor," Ffamran replied, absently. The wrongness made Gabranth frown, again, but he could not begin to see how to unravel this. "Well, go."

"I will inform Zargabaath that you will be late," Gabranth said, knowing he was rather obviously stalling for time.

Ffamran shrugged, his answer mysterious. "No doubt he has guessed." Before Gabranth could ask, however, the boy had disappeared into the washroom, closing the door behind him.

--

[The beginning and end of now

Ffamran waits until the noise of full plate dies away, then he slides down (a little theatrically, he would admit) against the smooth washroom door, sitting on the cold tiles and staring up at the mirror. From this angle, he cannot see his face, and he is a little glad of that: he must look a wreck, for Gabranth to be this worried.

He wishes many things: that he need not make such choices, at eighteen-on-nineteen, that he could keep both his love and his integrity and one of his closest friends; that he could keep both this comfortable life and freedom. That his love was not bound to the plans of another; that his friend had not been just the latest casualty in a war-prince's ambitions.

He wishes he could tell Gabranth: _this is how I stand; choose now_, but he tells himself that this way is better for that way is too unfair, to himself, to Gabranth, even as he also knows that the true reason why he does not ask so of his love is that he is afraid of what Gabranth _would_ choose. It is better, Ffamran thinks; to leave with an illusion of final images than to find out that the person he has given his heart to could choose ill-placed loyalty or ambition over the life of a friend whom he knows to be innocent.

Better that he never knows (both). He wishes now for the distant _then_, when this would not hurt nearly so much (in all probability).

He knows the choice he is about to make is irrevocable, and the knowledge but creates emptiness in his belly and a dizzy humming roar in his mind. He is already beyond tears and such banalities as grief; he can hear the first words of the letter he will later write in his mind, superimposed over a disciplined mental retrieval of security codes and patrol routes.

At eighteen-on-nineteen Ffamran makes the best and worst choice of his life.

-fin-


	8. You, and Fate

wild children

Fool's Gold: You, and Fate

[A/N: bored today.

Reddas grinned and opened his arms in a gesture of welcome, when Gabranth was escorted into his sea-view office in the Manse under heavy guard, his wrists cuffed behind him. "You took far longer than I thought."

Gabranth seemed much the worse for wear: his former chief aide was thinner now, his cheeks a little hollower; his eyes fever-bright with insufficient sleep, wheat-gold hair longer and unruly, casual shirt crumpled, his expression guarded and cold. It had only been an hour or so ago that Reddas had received reports that 'a limey toff' had been 'snoopin' about' Balfonheim asking questions about 'someone matchin' Balthier's make' (ah, piratical slang).

Given that none of the team he had sent out were missing or injured, he guessed that Gabranth had decided at least to cooperate. Behind the Judge, Rikken was grinning, obviously pleased with the prompt success of the 'acquisition'.

The Judge-Magister looked pointedly at their audience. Reddas smirked, inclined his head, and glanced at the guard. "I need to speak to my guest in private."

"Sure? 'e don't look too friendly t'me," one of Reddas' self-appointed guards, a hugely built Valendian by the name of Orton, rumbled.

"He's cuffed, and he is an old friend," Reddas arched an eyebrow at Gabranth, who hesitated, then nodded stiffly. "I will call if I need help."

"Awlright, Reddas. Just so ye know, we'd be outside." The guard filed out, and closed the door. Reddas perched on the edge of his desk, even as he indicated with a wave of his hand that Gabranth take a seat on the couch.

The Judge-Magister remained standing. Predictably, the first words out of his mouth were, "Where is he?"

"What, no greetings for an old friend and mentor?" Reddas feigned hurt, and had to hide a grin when Gabranth glowered at him. As had always been the case, he rather enjoyed annoying the often serious and dignified Gabranth. "You are not particularly in a position of bargaining advantage now, Gabranth."

Gabranth sucked in a deep breath, and replied bitingly, "You intended to lure me here from the start. Sending that letter to Zargabaath to my chambers by 'mistake', and floridly postmarked 'Balfonheim Manse', with your old wax seal? Very subtle, _mentor_. Especially since all your real letters to Zargabaath were sent through at least two untraceable intermediaries and often postmarked with Rozarrian stamps."

"Ah, well," Reddas shrugged. "I thought that should get your attention, and it seemed far easier than arranging an audience in Archades."

"You did not answer my question."

"Ffamran is not in Balfonheim at the moment," Reddas watched Gabranth's shoulders visibly slump, and not for the first time privately cursed his young friend's stubbornness. Principles and convictions were laudable, he supposed, since it was that and Ffamran's integrity that had prompted the boy to give up his privileged life in Archades for that of an outlaw, in breaking Reddas out of custody… but they could be carried too far.

"Then I am wasting my time here."

"Zargabaath asked me to talk to you, actually. Have a seat." Reddas waited, but Gabranth did not seem inclined to move. "He expressed a worry over your mental health."

"Did he have to leave with you?" Gabranth's question was unsurprisingly bitter.

"Considering he used his security codes, he probably did," Reddas pointed out dryly. "I did offer many times to provide evidence of duress so that he could return to Archades, but he refused." More gently, he added, "This has not been easy for him, either."

"He has sent no word."

"Often he has considered writing. But on the whole he seemed prone either to restlessness, listlessness or… unhealthy habits." Reddas phrased it delicately. Ffamran had, up until Reddas found out about it, developed a tendency to recklessly seek the company of men who just so happened to resemble Gabranth. After that, when a lecture did not work, the ex-Judge posted a guard and put out a quiet word. It was divine providence that Ffamran had encountered that Viera when he did; under her influence, at least he seemed to have recovered at the very least his sense of moderation.

"Unhealthy habits?" Gabranth asked, sharply.

"Grown out of it now, I believe. He somehow managed to fall into good company in a pirate town. But then that boy's luck is quite unnatural," Reddas shrugged. "Now, about yourself."

Gabranth laughed, a mirthless, barking sound that told Reddas all he needed. "Zargabaath was concerned about the backlog in cases?"

"About your well-being. He does happen to be your friend."

"He knew Ffamran was planning to break you out of prison." Gabranth said flatly.

"If he did he never said as much to me," Reddas supposed privately that it was only logical. Zargabaath may be military by nature and by mindset, but he was not stupid.

"He knew."

"So what would you have had him do, talk to you?" Reddas arched an eyebrow. "Have Ffamran arrested? Tried for conspiracy and treachery? That would have ended well, I am sure."

"I would have at least tried to privately dissuade him."

"Have you ever tried dissuading Ffamran from doing something when his mind was set on it?" Reddas asked dryly. "Because I have."

That at least gave Gabranth pause; he looked away, with a low sigh. "Or at least, perhaps…"

"Would you have left Archades with us?" Reddas asked gently.

"I… no." Gabranth admitted, finally. "I could not. Not if he had asked me then."

"And there you have it."

"That is why I need to talk to him," Gabranth said wearily. "I need to see if he would agree to any sort of compromise."

"He has made up his mind that he does not wish to see what you might choose," Reddas said wryly. "But if it is much comfort, I think someday he will finally speak with you. This hurts him as well."

"Then what would you advise?" It took a long moment for Gabranth to swallow his pride.

"Go back to Archades and try to heal. And be patient."

"That is…"

"Gabranth," Reddas drummed his fingers on his desk, "If you truly, only wanted Ffamran back at your side, you would leave Archades and wait here. And when I say leave I mean leave everything: your responsibilities, your ties to Solidor, all of that life. If you cannot give all of that up you cannot even begin to gamble your chances. As such you have at least half the blame that you may never be able to have him again."

"Duty…"

"Is as uncompromising as he is, I think." Reddas clapped his hands sharply, and Rikken poked his head into the office. "Escort my guest to the aerodrome and make sure he leaves Balfonheim."

"Wait." Gabranth said, and Rikken glanced at Reddas, who shrugged. Rikken snorted, and ducked back out of the office. "I do not believe that is all that made you call me here."

"I offer a compromise of my own, Gabranth," Reddas grinned. "As you know, I am now by default leader of Balfonheim. However, I am also a wanted criminal of Archades, and as such Archadia may have the right to swallow this free port ostensibly to gather my head."

"So?"

"So I would like you to use your influence with Vayne. Tell him it is in his Lordship's interests that I currently am lord of the Manse and that I have no ambitions on expanding the borders or preying on Archadian vessels. In exchange, I give you my word to try and put some checks obliquely on Ffamran's… movements. It is hard enough keeping an eye out on that one."

"I would be far more inclined to accept if your half of the exchange included his location." Gabranth said, unable to keep a faint whisper of hope from his harsh voice.

"He flies an airship, Gabranth," Reddas pointed out dryly. "Wherever he chooses to go, I cannot say."

"A name, then. He has taken another, I presume."

Reddas hesitated. Ffamran had actually given permission to use personal information in 'bargaining', the boy knowing the importance of Balfonheim staying a free port, but the ex-Judge felt uncomfortable. It seemed almost like betrayal. "Balthier. His ship is called the _Strahl_."

Gabranth nodded, slowly. "I will speak with Lord Vayne."

"You will not find him, I warrant." Reddas smiled with some pity. "Not while you are so shackled to the earth."

-fin-


	9. Surface Pretenses

1. the heart knows the world's disguise

[A/N: ya, still bored.

Fool's Gold: Surface pretenses

Gabranth crawled to consciousness couched dimly in pain; discipline instituted itself quickly on his first difficult breath, and forced him to assess the damage (a warrior's training, from Landis, so as to better communicate injuries to healers).

A dull headache, at the back of his skull, where he had hit the pillar: the helmet had likely saved him, there, from a fracture. Bruising down his shoulders and lower back. Sharp pain in the ribs with each breath: something broken, there. Dulled, localized lines of agony about limbs: dressed sword-wounds, he supposed, and the itchy-tender about his abdomen likely the healed portions of magical burns.

And a prickly sensation over his left arm that he could not explain. A cramp. Gabranth turned his head, and cautiously opened his eyes.

Ffamran (Balthier, now) was sound asleep over a bicep, lips parted, one arm outflung beside him and the other folded in an odd position under his open shirt. The rest of the sky pirate's lean body was ensconced in a wooden chair pulled up against the starched bed. The white plaster walls and the side table, piled with salves and bandages, told Gabranth that this was a sickroom. The window, from which he could hear the noise of a waking harbor, smell the scents of the sea (fish, fronds, spice) told him that this was Balfonheim.

Startled, confused, but unwilling to question his good fortune, Gabranth took another deep breath, kicking his mind. Its sluggishness indicated that he had likely been drugged; he glanced down at himself. The blankets had been pushed down to his belly, and his ribs were bound in bandages and poultice. The fussy little knots spoke to him of his brother's work, there. The blade wounds were barely healed, but the magic-wounds were gone.

And there was Ffamran. Asleep, his brow slightly furrowed. Gabranth was almost afraid to breathe, lest he wake: he knew the sky pirate was likely as not to be cool to his company if conscious.

Gabranth had just mustered enough courage to use his free hand to gently pet caramel hair, when the door opened noiselessly. His brother arched an eyebrow when he glared at him, then Basch's gray-blue eyes fell to Ffamran's position, and Gabranth's hand. His twin's expression did not change, but identical eyes narrowed slightly. Gabranth bared his teeth when Basch pointedly sat on the edge of the bed, near his feet.

"He is exhausted," Basch said, in a low tone, inclining his head at Ffamran. "Getting you out of your damaged armor to be treated was difficult." When Gabranth frowned groggily at him, he added, "Do you remember? You have been asleep for a while. Ffamran spent most of that fussing about your room."

Ah. The Pharos. Gabranth nodded, warily, not wanting to make comment over Ffamran's behavior, as much as it warmed his throat and heart, before his brother and rival. "I remember being knocked unconscious."

"We stowed you in the back of the airship and flew to Balfonheim," Basch nodded. "Then we had to hide you from Rikken and the others. Archades is none too popular at the moment."

"Rikken knows Zecht sees me as his friend."

"Zecht is dead," Basch said flatly.

Gabranth's hand froze amidst gently stroking over the spikier hair above the nape of Ffamran's neck. "What? How?"

"Stabbed the Sun Cryst," Basch lowered his eyes. "The backlash destroyed him."

Gabranth took in a slow breath, surprised that his first reaction after shock was immediate grief. It seemed that despite resenting Zecht intensely for being instrumental (intention aside) in removing Ffamran from Archades, Zecht had been a part of his life for so long, in the best years of his memories, that losing him felt impossible. It was with regret that Gabranth abruptly realized what his heart had known all along: that this masquerade of affected betrayal and political linework had meant little. Zecht had been one of his closest friends, and he had not had the mind to treasure that.

He wondered how stricken he looked, that Basch glanced away out of respect for his sorrow, looking to Ffamran's graceful back. "I am sorry. I did hear that you, and he were close friends. When traveling with us, he spoke to me a great deal about you. It seemed he was quite fond of you, despite everything."

"Yes," Gabranth said, unable to come to terms with the news, still. Zecht the survivor was dead. "After... after I lost Ffamran, I was not myself for a long time. Zecht was concerned when told, and he... well, he manipulated me into coming to Balfonheim. Then orchestrated matters to coerce me to start healing." His lip twisted into a humorless grin. "And of course, all the years I spent as Chief Aide."

"He said that you were very efficient, despite the variety of your duties," Basch said, gentle and wry, and Gabranth realized what his twin was doing: affording a way to honor and remember his friend, now, when later, as Judge-Magister Gabranth, he would not be able to. Zecht was still a listed traitor of Archades. This world truly did not deserve his brother.

"I admit at the beginning I was disappointed when picked for his team. Of course I was honored to be selected for an associate team, but I had rather hoped to go to Ghis', or Zargabaath's. Their specialties in law were to my interest. Property and crime," he elaborated, when his twin looked puzzled. "Zecht's was passing strange: Admiralty and tort."

"He said he thought you would bolt when he showed you his Chambers," Basch's eyes were unfocused, recalling conversations. "I thought you could not tolerate disorder."

"I spent my first year as Chief Aide trying to institute filing systems and rosters, but it was ultimately futile," Gabranth shrugged. "After a while I simply became used to things. Besides, he kept me too busy. I was only an associate Judge for half a year or so, until his Chief Aide decided to marry and retire. It was a complete shock to be named."

"He had heard of you. Read your essays, and the Magistrate judgments."

"I was not questioning my qualifications," Gabranth shrugged. "But just as Zecht made no secret of his disdain for Judges 'colored' by politics, I made no effort to hide my ties to my benefactor and commander. That was another reason why at the start I was disappointed to be picked. I felt it could have been tactical on his part, to leave me an associate for the rest of my career, so as to pre-empt Vayne from having more influence on the Bench."

"Did he not nominate you for Judge-Magister? He said he had to dragoon Zargabaath into agreeing." Basch watched Ffamran carefully as he spoke, but the sky pirate seemed to be able to sleep through the conversation.

"Aye, he did. Another surprise." Gabranth smiled wryly, "I am afraid I did not train my successor sufficiently enough to prepare her for the demands of Chief Aide. She often asked me how I handled the... personal phone calls, from jilted lovers, or the arbitrary demands for exotic food, or any number of particularly odd eccentricities. She left in a year. The next Chief Aide, thankfully, was more efficient than I was, to the extent of actually being able to organize the office, somewhat."

Drace, who had made Judge-Magister when Zecht left, as his immediate successor, having been his Chief Aide. Basch reflected on Zecht's words of anger and sorrow when mentioning her death, which, though by his brother's hand, the ex-Judge-now-pirate had attributed firmly to Vayne. "He said she was a dictator, I believe."

"Drace was a strong woman. She needed to be, with her background. I think Zecht was merely taken aback by the very idea of a Chief Aide he could not out-talk or charm."

"I am surprised she did not leave with him." Basch mused, then tensed, as though remembering that mentioning the worst moment of his brother's life was poor small talk.

Gabranth chuckled softly, however, tired; and besides, Ffamran was warm against his arm and side, and he could smell the gunpowder-musk of his lover, only a little different, now, than then. "Drace was very much to the letter of the law. She felt justice could be served in his case by more legal means. No one expected Ffamran to act the way he did."

"Ah." The hollow note to the end of that statement quieted Basch for a while, watching his brother's fingers thread through the sky pirate's hair. "You do know that, given how he acted when we thought you too seriously injured for treatment, and the consensus reached that you should not be fully healed so you would stay out of trouble... if you were to stay here, quietly, until everything is resolved, you would have a fair chance of..."

"Thank you, brother," Gabranth found that he spoke in all honesty, unsurprised by Basch's unbending sense of honor and fair-play, even where it may mean giving up someone he loved. "But by 'everything' you mean that Lady Ashe intends to attack the Bahamut, and therefore, Vayne, then I cannot tarry here."

"I do not understand why you follow Lord Vayne," Basch admitted. "Lord Larsa, perhaps, but not Vayne. He may be a brilliant strategist and a genius as they say, but he is wed irrevocably to ambition and power."

"You know only that of him which is public," Gabranth traced the dark arches of Ffamran's eyebrows, and the curious hollows over shuttered eyes. "He was once very much like your Lady Ashe, I think. Idealistic, passionate, championing a just cause. There is much about Archadian politics and the workings of the Senate that were confidential to most. But power corrupts."

"So you need not stay."

"I ask you then, brother. Someday, if power were to be the be-all and end-all of your Lady Ashe, would you so easily abandon her?"

--

When Basch left, Gabranth rubbed a thumb down a sideburn to the soft curve of lips, and flinched when nipped sharply, jerking his hand back by reflex. Ffamran watched him with unreadable walnut eyes that held no hint of sleep: likely, the sky pirate had been awake for some time, but feigned it. "I beg pardon," Gabranth murmured quickly, but relaxed when Ffamran merely snorted, and did not move.

"Have a care, Gabranth, or I should think you turning into your brother. He apologizes for everything."

"Aye, it was a habit that concerned our parents. That he was far too much a gentle soul to be a knight."

"Oh? And what changed their minds?" Ffamran inquired.

"The males of my family have always been knights," Gabranth shrugged, knowing he was speaking not so much of a wish for conversation but a wish to delay the inevitable. As such, it was to his pleasant surprise that Ffamran clambered up under the sheets to settle carefully against his flank, pillowing his head against a shoulder.

"The chair got uncomfortable," Ffamran explained, his voice apparently unconcerned, but Gabranth could feel the quickening heartbeat against his ribs, even through the bandages and the throbbing pain. Tentatively, he curled one arm around a slim waist, resting splayed fingers over hips. And he knew, with a wry sense of inevitability, with his nose pressed against silky hair, despite circumstances, injuries, and all common good sense, he would soon be hard.

Ffamran evidently knew this (of course). His hand slipped over bandaged muscle, feather-light and careful, to rest on the washboard stomach just above the hem of Gabranth's breeches. The Judge-Magister was sure he had stopped breathing, at that point, but fingers only dipped briefly into his navel before traveling back up to the edges of bandages. He was unable to bite down a low sound of disappointment, answered by a playful chuckle in his ear that for a moment took them back four years, if all too briefly.

"I know you will leave," Ffamran said, neutrally. "Do you not think it odd? That you spend four years chasing my shadow, and then now…"

"If you and yours were not about to move against Lord Vayne, if the rebellion was not building so, I would be glad to stay." Gabranth sighed. "But now that he risks his life, t'would be a poor knight that does not defend his master."

"I should think it a poor man who leaves love for such harsh mistresses," Ffamran grumbled, but his voice was resigned, as though he had worked all this out before, logically, and come to this conclusion; had already reconciled with it since.

"And I think you would not suffer a poor man to have your love," Gabranth grinned, lowering his head to flick his tongue briefly against Ffamran's nose, to an indignant stiff and a hand batting against his temple. Whatever tomorrow brought would come only tomorrow; today he had Ffamran, with four years forgotten (however briefly).

He knew that his brother knew, what was like to happen (and truly he himself did not deserve Basch); whispered conversations flowed naturally into hesitant kisses, to moans and carefully entwining limbs (wounds), and this was journey's end and a genesis of things to come; even if he were to die tomorrow, he would count himself lucky for having this.

-fin-


	10. Touching Perfection

Touching Perfection

1 Mischief

Gabranth glowered at the queue before him to the Registry with an increasing sense of inevitability, and not for the first time quietly cursed his mentor and superior.

Trust Judge-Magister Zecht to approach him half an hour before five on a Friday, grin merrily and say, _by the way, Gabranth, have you filed that Spilzerg affidavit yet?_

_Why no, sir. You were supposed to have finished it last week, were you not?_

_No need to be cheeky, lad. Go along to the Registry, now. _

_Was that affidavit not due today, sir?_

_Then you should be running along now, should you not?_

Bloody _Zecht_. Gabranth shifted his weight to his other foot, listening to the oiled slither of shoulder plates with a sigh. The manila folder containing the affidavit in question was tapped in an impatient staccato against his hip, as he alternated between wishing that the Judge-Magister who was the source of just about all the troubles in his current life would die, preferably painfully, and wishing that everybody currently in front of him would do so.

No such luck, and, given all narrative convention following an already terrible day, the Registry closed, just as he was four places down the queue. Disappointed, the queue dispersed, and Gabranth shook his head slowly and took deep, calming breaths. Granted, the consequences for a late filing on this side of the Bench wasn't _too_ drastic; it was only practitioners that tended to have to pay scrupulous attention to deadlines.

But if it caused yet _another _professional conduct complaint filed against Zecht, or somehow became the root of mistrial proceedings… Gabranth shuddered to think. Zecht in a bad mood was a considerable test of patience.

Just as he was considering simply taking leave for a month, the single door to the squat set of offices that comprised the Registry of the Justice Department opened. The Registrar-on-duty was a middle-aged lady running comfortably on plump, her round, pleasant face slightly marred by a hawkish nose and a shapeless chin. Her gray-black clothes hung off her in heavy folds, reminding Gabranth a little vaguely of a small hillock of fallen curtains.

She was speaking with a tone of motherly indulgence. "…the best banana bread I have had was in Liatz. It had chocolate crumbs melted into it."

"I am sure you can bake better, Lilia." A familiar and rather unwelcome velvety voice informed Gabranth that the bad day had come full circle: that annoying brat of a Chief Aide to Judge-Magister Zargabaath was here. Ffamran Bunansa. The fifteen-year-old was dressed in a tight-fitting pale blue shirt tucked into white leather breeches that folded into knee-length black boots with several unnecessary silver buckles hugging the thighs. He blinked owlishly when he recognized Gabranth, glanced at the folder, then smirked. "A little late there, Chief Aide?"

Gabranth forced a thin smile for the sake of the Registrar, muttered something hopefully polite, and turned on his heel. He didn't need Ffamran's sarcasm, not today.

The boy, however, was surprisingly quick: the folder was snatched out of Gabranth's fingers before he could react, and Ffamran sidestepped an instinctive grab for confidential documents. "Judge Ffamran!"

"Affidavit for… hm, State versus Spilzerg." Ffamran opened the folder to take a look. "My, my. Isn't this the hops poisoning case?"

"Ffamran," the Registrar clucked her tongue at him. "Confidential documents, child."

"But I find the case _highly_ entertaining," Ffamran was in one of _those_ moods, that Gabranth had till now only seen rumors of: that sometimes, the prodigy-Judge tended to act his age, regardless of whether it was appropriate. He would admit, however, that were circumstances different he would likely have found the pout adorable: now, it only fed his ire.

He would _not_ lose his temper at a child. Gabranth folded his arms, tightly curling fingers into heavy sleeves to remind himself. "Are you quite finished?"

"_Somebody_ had a bad day," Ffamran remarked to the world at large, though he edged a little closer to Lilia as he said this. "It does look as though this was supposed to be filed today. What a shame."

"_Ffamran_," Lilia took the file from him firmly, looking a little reproving. "Don't be rude to your peers."

"Yes, mother," Ffamran said, archly, causing Lilia to roll her eyes heavenward in an ostentatious plea for patience, then turn back to Gabranth with a kindly smile that he had never seen grace her features before. Usually, behind the Registry counter, Lilia was a terror to Judges and cadets alike: she was curt, impatient and unforgiving with mistakes; even when _he _had been a cadet she was notorious for her draconic temper.

"I'll get this stamped now. But tell Judge-Magister Zecht not to be late again, please."

Surprise and pleasant relief made Gabranth blink several times before replying. "Thank you! Thank you very much."

"You wait for me here, brat," Lilia waved a pudgy finger under Ffamran's nose, as she marched back towards the Registry.

Ffamran winked at him, then, and Gabranth realized that the childishness, in the boy's case, was likely more often than not an elaborate act of manipulation, if playful and without malice. It forced him to reevaluate certain assumptions.

He mouthed _thank you_, and Ffamran chuckled, grinning impishly. "If you kiss me I'll call it even, Judge Gabranth."

There was really no call for there to be these many shocks to his system on a Friday afternoon. He managed to sputter a shocked, "_What_?" before realizing his main train of thought was 'maybe in three years', and having to rein _that_ in sharply.

The grin took several heartbeats too long to turn into a smirk. "My dear Gabranth, please do not tell me you've never been…"

"Propositioned by a fifteen year old? Yes." Gabranth said as sternly as he could, gathering back his poise.

"Ouch. I suppose that should have hurt, were I so minded," Ffamran drawled, and chocolate-brown eyes seemed to turn a little distant, as though genuinely injured by the comment.

"What about coffee, instead?" Gabranth extended an apology in the form of a wry smile without thinking. "You, and Lilia."

"Hardly as exciting," the boy scoffed, but the mischief was back, perfect in its unashamed cheek.

2 Aprons

Ffamran loved this best. The smell of dough and the comfortable warmth of the kitchen, the snow-dusting of flour over the thick, polished oak-and-steel table, the militant arrangement of pots, bowls, packets, cups, weighing-scale, spoons, rolling-pin, cartons and his mother's hands. Small and elegant and skilled, kneading the dough with curls of fingers and twists of the flat of her palms.

She smiled at him when she saw him staring. "Well, sweetheart, have you come to a decision?" Lady Liadrin Bunansa was a petite, dainty woman, seemingly out of place in the kitchen yet obviously most at home, reaching out absently to the bowl of sifted flour to her right without looking. Mixed blood with a little Rozarrian and a little Bhujerban, in her raven-dark hair and almond eyes, the natural tan that was so very unfashionable, nowadays, amongst the women of the Archadian elite. Not that he or his parents gave very much of a damn, but then, the Bunansa family was notoriously eccentric.

"Banana bread," he said, with as much conviction as a distracted eight-year-old could muster. "And chocolate."

"What, both at the same time?" Liadrin teased, even as she looked thoughtfully towards the pantry.

"At the same time," Ffamran stuck his tongue out. "It should not be hard for a lady of your culinary experience."

"No need for that cheek, Ffamran," Liadrin said dryly, even as she dusted off flour-covered hands and wiped them absently down the front of her apron. Another out-of-place piece: the apron was dark blue, and made of some sort of odd, stiff fabric that looked like it was more suited to a construction site than to a kitchen. "Onroe?"

Onroe, the Cook, was the technical master of the kitchen, a tall, broad-shouldered man with a florid gray beard that reminded Ffamran of an ageing bear. His family had long served Liadrin's, and she had 'poached' him over (her words) on marriage. He was dressed soberly in chef's whites, and he stepped forward quickly to Liadrin's side. "My lady."

"Do we have bananas?"

"Yes, my lady." Onroe turned his beetle-browed natural frown to Ffamran. "Though I advise that the young master entertain fewer flights of fancy."

"'Tis bread, Onroe," Ffamran pouted. "I could easily have asked at chili, or… or condensed milk."

"Perish the thought." Onroe grumbled to himself as he ambled over to the considerable pantry: more of a storage room in itself. The Bunansa estate was old-fashioned: large, with many servants that needed to be fed, most of whom equally as old-fashioned. The butler Olfen continued to polish family silver with his thumbs, the maids curtseyed on sight, and it seemed to have affected Onroe in the style of his cooking. Excellent, but traditional.

Liadrin was looking at the bowl of bananas (handed over reluctantly by Onroe) and the dough, when squawks behind Ffamran informed him that the master of the house had seen fit to scandalize the servants via entering their domain. Warm arms wrapped around him from behind the low-backed chair, and there was a bristly kiss on the back of his head. "And how are my favorite people?"

"I notice you left 'son' out for 'people' this time, Father," Ffamran smirked. The last time had brought a hypothetical consideration of the interpretation of '_And how is my favorite son_', in the context of which other 'sons' his father could have had, and ended in Cid getting panicky that his beloved wife might be getting the wrong idea.

"I thought it would only be fair that I included your mother." A poke to the nose told Ffamran that his father certainly hadn't forgiven the last incident, but walnut-brown eyes were amused, at the edge of his vision. The monocle was adjusted as Cid peered at the bananas, then at the dough. "What are you making, my dear?"

"Banana and chocolate bread, your son's instruction," Liadrin said mildly. Behind her, Onroe's nod was disapproving.

"Oh." Cid paused. "What about adding pepper to that?"

A sharp look backwards showed that Cid was perfectly serious. "The molecular structure of bananas, chocolate and pepper, that applies to taste-sensations, appear to be similar and therefore likely complimentary, especially when…"

"Thank you, dear," Liadrin interrupted sharply, even as she began to peel bananas into the bowl. "But I think the world is not yet ready for scientifically constructed food."

"Taste is scientifically constructed in our…" Cid yelped, as Ffamran decided to be merciful and elbow his father sharply in the ribs before he could unwittingly spark Liadrin's ire. "Haha. Er." Cid adjusted his monocle. "Of course, my dear."

"Chokingly saccharine. I give it a two out of ten, for dispute resolution," Ffamran remarked, earning a prod, this time in his flank, that made him squirm irritably and glare at his father (though, not having yet come into his growth spurt, and being all of eight, the glare was somewhat lacking in fierceness).

"The boy's become remarkably impudent since he became too heavy to carry," Cid remarked to Liadrin mildly.

"Like father, like son," Liadrin replied sweetly, and chuckled, as both males in question replied with a wounded "I resent that", at the very same time.

3 Tailwinds

Ffamran revved up his hoverbike at the very edge of the Central Clocktower and made sure with a quick check on the edges of his helm that his visor was up and clouded. Anonymity was the byword of the Monday Overdrives: names and faces only got in the way of the fierce joy of speed. Beside him, the last two contenders did the same, the glossair-charged engines of their bikes humming into life, waiting for the announcer to shoot. Inset cameras along the course would track their progress, and if he turned his head, he could see the Clocktower's spectator-circles, drinking and cheering, on select rooftops, the liquid screens behind them focused currently on his helmet, larger than life.

It wasn't particularly legal, but Ffamran had found, as he grew older, that illegality often turned out to be a good yardstick by which fun was consequently measured.

A sharp retort had him crouched forward and his hands twisting before his mind registered the start-gun. Under him, the hoverbike's engines roared fully into superdrive as he and the others dived off the Clocktower. The first test was of daring, as they plummeted down past glass windows and the massive clock face, the wind whistling past and tugging at his leather jacket, past the Severance mark to the Underground, the lower tier of Upper Archades. He bared teeth in a grin, as his opponents banked sharply, and did so only a meter above the grime. The bike bucked fluidly into horizontal, and streaked forward, scattering rubbish in his wake, as he cut upwards to clear the rubble, streaming towards the first checkpoint.

They swerved around the chase of Quakern Pass, close at each other's heels, and up over Middle Park, trying to lose each other through the manicured trees and tearing up the cultured grass, scaring roosting pigeons. Beside him, the girl-shaped rider was laughing, wildly, in the sheer ecstasy of speed, and he was sure his lips were stretched in an answering feral grin, as they shot off the Middle Park platform into the dizzy drop of Overston Street, banking sharply before the Maiestern Cathedral's Southern Spire in another scatter of squawks and feathers.

Ffamran caught a glimpse of a pitted stone gargoyle, too close to his aft glossair rings, as he followed the ultraviolet blink of the next cue, chambering gears to take another plunging drop following ancient brickwork, hot on the first rider's heels.

Falcon was the girl, and Hawk, the other: if they had any real names Ffamran was none too bothered to learn them – to them, he was Kestrel. The last three seasons had them all on the Clocktower on Fridays, and there was little competition left in their races: they were the best, and they knew it. This showed when they came across a private black cab, speeding to some unknown destination, highly unusual for this time of night, as they dived over the Bridgework Towers to the narrow Umbersign Avenue. Hawk gestured mischievously, and they drew level with the cab: himself to the right, Hawk to the left, Falcon at the front, crowding it for a moment, then diving, following the ultraviolet blink, perpendicular down the Towers.

Above them, the cab stopped, in confusion and likely shock, as they banked just above the Severance and roared up again into the more crowded junction of Umbersign and Easton, dodging oncoming traffic that slowed into a snarl of angry drivers behind them, swooping onwards towards the Central Square checkpoint, to whistles and cheers from the spectator-circle atop the roof of the State Central Library.

This season Hawk won, by a heartbeat, and he shook Ffamran's hand, then Falcon's. "Good ride."

Falcon giggled, muffled under her helmet. "See you again next month, boys."

--

Ffamran was a little surprised to see the lights on as he rode his more sober, normal hoverbike back to the apartment he shared with Gabranth, the supercharged one locked in his family estate. He parked it in the garage of the building, and took the lift up, whistling, the thrill of adrenaline not having yet left his system.

He was therefore a little annoyed to see Gabranth seated on the armchair in the living room, apparently reading a book: a sure sign that his lover had been waiting for him, and that there was soon to be a disagreement. Hoping to defuse it quickly, he took off his helmet, tossed it onto the sofa, and managed to sidle onto Gabranth's lap. The tight black leather jacket, breeches, boots and gloves had previously been met, to his experience, with appreciation, but today Gabranth sighed, dropped the book over the edge of the armchair, and wrapped arms around his waist.

"Where were you about an hour ago?"

"Out with friends," Ffamran said promptly, curling arms around Gabranth's tensed shoulders and brushing a kiss over his lips. No response. Pissed, evidently. "There wasn't any need to wait up. And you normally work late on Mondays."

"The plaintiff withdrew his claim, in the current matter," Gabranth explained, his eyes narrowing, "And you are lying."

"Oh?" Ffamran fought a frown. He could not have…

"I was coming back from drinks with the others in a new place of Zecht's choosing, when three… hoverbikes drew level with my cab," Gabranth said, flatly, "And do not try to deny it. I can recognize you anywhere."

"Hoverbikes, plural," Ffamran said, with a quick grin, even as his mind worked quickly. "Out with friends, as I said."

"Ffamran," Gabranth took a deep breath, "When I saw you, ride that damned bike headlong into traffic, for a moment, each _moment_, I thought you might… and then you did not answer any calls…"

"Shh." Ffamran pressed his lips against Gabranth's, nibbling and sucking, until the other man opened his mouth with a low groan of relief-anger-frustration and curled fingers around the nape of his neck, crushing them closer. When the brutal kisses became gentler, affectionate, Ffamran relaxed, and shifted to bare his neck for bites. "You need not worry so."

"Hn." The sound was non-committal, as Gabranth unzipped his jacket to rub fingers over the thin white cotton beneath.

"I've been doing this for years."

"What?" Gabranth looked up sharply. "But I have never…"

Ffamran grinned, self-satisfied. "Because…" The rest of his reply was muffled in a rough kiss and a growl, and a shift under him as Gabranth curled his body a little deeper into the armchair and pushed up a thigh, forcing Ffamran flush up against him.

"And you are not doing it again."

Ffamran frowned. "Why not? I love riding supercharged bikes."

"Not at that speed, or in this manner!"

"But I… nmph!" Ffamran growled and bit his lover's lower lip sharply in reproof, when finally let up for air. "Then how else do you propose I entertain myself at night, Judge-Magister? You work late. And I can tell you the thrill of Overdrive is like nothing else."

Gabranth looked so adorably nonplussed that Ffamran momentarily forgot his irritation with newfound restrictions, smirking, even when pulled into a tight embrace under the older man's chin. The silence was comfortable, as he listened to a slowing heart and stiffly measured breaths, amused and thinking of concessions and trade in perfect moments.

Finally, "I could take work home."

"Is that your idea of a concession, my dear?" Ffamran drawled the last two words, with enough sarcasm to sting, and earned a more conciliatory, gentle kiss.

"Then what do you suggest?"

Ffamran hesitated, shifting knees to either side of Gabranth's hips, allowing the other man to pull off his jacket and shirt and nuzzle the hollow of his collarbone. He did not actually have very much of an idea. He loved Overdrives, but he could tell Gabranth had been genuinely shocked… frightened, even, by the incident: fingers were moving restlessly over his back, thighs, his hair, shaky in their relief.

"I could go for the Breaks, those aren't as intensive." He paused, "On the days when you are not about." When Gabranth smiled, Ffamran added, "This also applies on the days where you _are_ about, but bore me."

"Harsh," the older man murmured, even as Ffamran shifted to allow a warm thigh between his, and rubbed against it with an unselfconscious purr of pleasure. "You _are_ high maintenance, Ffamran."

"Never denied it," Ffamran stole fingers towards the catch on Gabranth's breeches, toying first with fingertips on the growing bulge, teasing out a throaty growl.

"Brat."

"Never denied _that_ either, old man."

-fin-


	11. Sentiment

Fool's Gold

[A/N: I drew the picture in a competitions law lecture, just before running out of paper and then falling asleep. Yes, we DO have color-coded folders in law. XD But most of our books are terribly boring in hue…

Sentiment

Ffamran Bunansa would have felt a little more indignant about being the errand boy, had his objectives been different. Zargabaath's surprise birthday party was getting into full drunken swing with the hours, however, and nobody above sixteen years of age was currently able to walk in a straight line, let alone maneuver the darkened corridors of the Justice Department in after hours, rife with treacherous stairways, esoteric corridors, and identical rooms.

And so it was left to the fifteen-year-old Chief Aide of Zargabaath's bureau to navigate about and locate the few remaining workaholics in the building to invite them to the party. _Damn drunken Judge-Magisters and their sudden bright ideas_.

Slightly annoyed, but having been plied full of delicately fried cheese and honey cake (a clear tactic if he ever saw one), Ffamran climbed up another flight of stairs to the Arkon Wing of the Department, shared by Satre's and Zecht's bureaus. A somewhat older wing than the rest, it was constructed of crumbly brick weathered beautifully by the sun, its various sculptures and carvings depicting the stern eagles and scales of the Department fading quickly into bleached orange. Pale yellow fluorescent dots, a new addition, lined the ground, providing enough to see by.

Satre's office was occupied, judging from the orange light of the indicator next to the large oak double doors. Ffamran knocked politely, waited, then pressed the indicator. The soft chime of a bell went off, and there was another long pause before heavy steps indicated Satre's approach as well as his state of dress.

Satre was yet another relic of a Judge-Magister, close to his retirement. He was older yet than Zargabaath, likely in his sixties, and work in the Department had aged him quickly before his time, as it tended to. He was tall, more than a head taller than Ffamran, thin from too many rushed meals, skin pale from a lack of sun, his head of russet hair already mostly silver, dressed in full armor. Imperious green eyes held his, and one thin silver eyebrow arched. "Yes, boy?"

Ffamran grimaced inwardly, even as he kept his smile just on _this_ side of mischief. Satre, Zargabaath and Zecht always failed to address him by his title or name. "Judge-Magister Satre, Judge-Magister Zargabaath formally extends you an invite to attend his fiftieth birthday party, held in his Chambers. Or he would, if he was somewhat less drunk than he is now."

His cheeky quip went unappreciated. Satre rubbed eyes reddened from little sleep, yawned, glanced backwards at the antique grandfather's clock that sat court over the darkened associate's room, then up at the pale light emanating from the door to his office at the very end. "Give me a quarter of an hour, then I will make my way down."

"All right. I extend my condolences to you, that you can have such a mountain of work which prevents you from-"

Satre reached over and ruffled his hair, which made Ffamran squeak indignantly and jerk away. Amused, the older man then pointedly leaned down, hands on armored knees, until he was on eye level. "None of that cheek with me, boy. 'Tis a little too late in the day, and your master knows the difficulty of the case I am working on."

Ffamran pouted. Satre was a difficult mark, with his equally quick wit, but he always welcomed a challenge. Still, Ffamran knew when to back down gracefully. "I will see you at Chambers, then."

The Judge-Magister straightened up, nodded absently, and closed the door. Feeling a little irritable, Ffamran wandered down the corridor and past the next Chambers, this one also lit with an orange light. Zecht and most of his team was already present at the party and navigating new definitions of insobriety, but his Chief Aide had lingered behind to 'finish up', Zecht had explained, along with other words such as 'inhuman' and 'crazy bastard'.

Ffamran paused outside the door, knowing that it likely said something about his regard for the other aide that the chance of being however briefly alone with him made being the errand boy worthwhile. He found Gabranth's ice intriguing, his disdain for 'childishness' amusing, and the Judge himself mysteriously attractive. Gabranth was not the most handsome person in the Department or Ffamran's experience by any measure, but something about him drew Ffamran's attention easily and unconsciously.

Moths to a flame, perhaps. Ffamran shared Zargabaath's scorn for Judges influenced by Solidor, however efficient or intelligent, and it was no secret who Gabranth's benefactor was.

He tried the door handle without knocking, and the door slid open easily. Mischief overrode propriety, as Ffamran sidled around the horrendous tangle of documents and tomes atop the main table of Zecht's associate room. He was glad that he had changed out of his armor into a blue shirt, breeches and a white scarf: armor was not particularly good to sneak about in.

Gentle snores from Zecht's office made the young Judge smirk, and walk as quietly as possible into the large room, navigating the scattered files on the ground as carefully as he could. There had been some commendable effort to straighten up Zecht's office: Ffamran had heard it was one of Gabranth's ongoing and futile projects. Documents and tomes had been mostly piled on the desk, and many of the coffee cups stacked against the window seat; Zecht's scribbles had been balled up in the waste bin, and his many airship catalogues stacked discreetly in a corner of the room. The shelves of the wall-length bookcase that stretched one side of the wall had been dusted, even if scrolls still littered the ground.

Gabranth was sprawled on the white couch at the other end of the room, a book still on his lap and blanketed in his aide's cloak, already sliding down towards his waist, sound asleep. His shirt was unbuttoned to show a very unbecoming amount of flesh: the Judge Chambers tended to get stiflingly hot during the nights. A guttering candle provided further illumination, dancing shadows over the scattered folders, books and documents scattered next to the couch. Gabranth had evidently been in the midst of doing work that was undoubtedly truly Zecht's responsibility.

Ffamran gently prised the yellow folder that was slowly slipping out of Gabranth's grasp. The other Judge's breathing immediately changed, and Ffamran found himself looking into gray-blue eyes unfocused from sleep. Gabranth took a moment to recognize him, then he flushed slightly, as though in embarrassment, and sat up, rubbing his eyes. "What time is it?"

"Late enough that Zecht is worried about your state of sobriety," Ffamran grinned. He couldn't help it: as much as he _knew_ mischief annoyed Gabranth, as much as he also knew that he _wanted_ to be in the other Judge's favor, his tongue tended to run a little out of control in the other man's presence. Zargabaath had already guessed as much what that meant, his eyes occasionally running between the Aides when they bickered thoughtfully, but had thankfully not made any comment. Yet.

"I _am_ sober." Gabranth's voice was husky from sleep, and Ffamran fought the urge to purr in response. Another yawn, and long fingers were scratching absently at the stubble over his jaw.

"That is precisely why he is worried," Ffamran drawled. To distract his tongue further before yet another quarrel began, he opened the file, affecting curiosity.

"Don't," Gabranth warned, making an uncoordinated grab for the folder that caught Ffamran's wrist instead, making the younger Judge yelp in surprise as he lost balance, sprawling over the other man's lap. Gabranth cursed, startled, then stiffened under him as Ffamran's automatic rearrangement to regain equilibrium saw the younger Judge more or less straddling muscular thighs over the cloak. The file was forgotten between their bodies and the back of the couch, as Ffamran's heartbeat quickened.

He was sure that he was blushing, and was about to apologize, but Gabranth's breathing abruptly took on a strained note. Expecting an incipient outburst, Ffamran looked up quickly, just in time to catch Gabranth's eyes smolder with such heat that his breath caught in his throat, eyes widening with sudden realizations. And _yes_, he could feel the other man stir, under him, hardening, and any uncertainty he had ever harbored about how this could be wrong was chased away in a primal, irrational sense of _right_.

It seemed appropriate to lean closer, lips parted, to beg silently for a first kiss that would change everything between them, but he met fingers roughened from sword-practice instead.

Gabranth's eyes were closed now, his breathing labored for a moment, before smoothening back under control. When he spoke, his voice was tightly flat. "Judge… Judge Ffamran. I apologize for the accident. Please inform Judge-Magister Zecht that I will be on my way down as soon as I finish the work that he was meant to have done yesterday."

Dismissal was clear in Gabranth's tone, but Ffamran could pick up a hint of desperation that the other man was unable to hide completely. Besides, the forced, even breaths were equally unable to still Gabranth's arousal. Ffamran grasped the hand against his lips with both hands, half-lidded his eyes, and began to lick the forefinger, deliberately, from the root to the tip.

_There_, again that sudden heat in the other man's gaze, but shuttered away even more quickly, this time. Gabranth jerked his hand away, hissing, "What _are_ you doing, boy? Get off me."

"No," Ffamran grinned impishly, and pushed back his hips against the ridge he could feel against his rump. Gabranth shuddered, with a groan, then bit his lip sharply, looking away and taking harsh, short breaths. Since that seemed to be going well, Ffamran ground his hips back again. This time, there was a little buck that made him gasp, and his own breeches began to feel somewhat restrictive.

Before he could try it again Gabranth's fingers were wrapped around his hips, preventing him from moving, and the other man's eyes were a little wild. "No, no, no. Ffamran, you are _fifteen_. And I can tell, you have never done this before. 'Tis wrong-"

Annoyed by the constant influence his age had him on having any sort of fun, Ffamran growled. Taking advantage of the preoccupation of Gabranth's fingers, he leaned forward to press lips against the other man's, if in obvious inexperience. The stubble felt a little ticklish under his chin, and as lips parted in shock, Ffamran's tongue darted forward for a little taste, as he wrapped arms around Gabranth's neck and molded himself close.

Gabranth's answering moan was more like a growl, and Ffamran found himself flipped onto his back, pinned to the couch and kissed both expertly and thoroughly, tangled in the cloak, able only to concentrate on not biting down on the new sensation of invading tongues stroking his, dizzy and arching helplessly as hands all but tore his shirt open to splay and stroke over his ribs, and _oh_, between his thighs, that heat…

Sweet desperation written into fingers tensed over his skin, the little rumbling growls from the back of the other man's throat, in how Ffamran's lips were beginning to swell from the novel assault. Ffamran was aware that his inexperience was far too telling: his hands seemed frozen to broad shoulders, and his bucks in response to grinding rocks were out of synch, his breathing released in sharp gasps for air between kisses.

All too soon, Gabranth reared back with a choked sound, scrambling backwards to the end of the couch, the blue cloak in valleys over his thighs. His skin was flushed pink, and the hasty jerk of blue cloth over his hips was not quick enough to hide the very obvious bulge.

Ffamran fought the urge to pout. That had been getting _fun_, too, more than he had imagined that it would be. He sat up, hands behind his back, his shirt open to the navel, chin resting on the knot of his scarf. "Why stop?"

"You are too young. 'Tis not even legal, and I am fourteen years your senior." Gabranth spoke too fast, and he was staring at the jumble of documents and books at his feet. "I apologize for the lack of control on my part. Please, go."

"Not too young to like you, surely," Ffamran's sudden spark of ire made difficult words easy to voice. "Nor too young to find you handsome."

Gabranth blinked at him, at that, then looked away, his blush deepening. Lips quirked into a quick, self-conscious smile before being forced back into a thin line. "Nevertheless."

"Too young to play? Then I can wait until you think otherwise," Ffamran retorted, angry and crossing his arms. "But you'll still be mine."

Gabranth let out a startled chuckle. The ice was faltering, even as the other Judge asked wryly, "And you just decided that, did you?"

Ffamran glared at the other man and dared him to gainsay his words. He was not quite sure what he would do were Gabranth simply to laugh things off and worse, ruffle his hair. He was sure he had read the other man correctly. Such a break in Gabranth's famed icy control could only logically be explained on a period of time of silent longing, and not just the fog of sleep. There was, however, little comfort to be derived from deductions, and as the silence stretched, Ffamran began to feel doubt rust into the armor of his ego.

It took several heartbeats before the amusement in Gabranth's sculpted features faded into something warm. Affection. The change was startling: it softened the cold cast to the other man's jaw, loosened the tension in the brow, warmed gray-blue eyes that had always previously held a habitual hint of ice. If Ffamran had thought Gabranth handsome before, he was stunning now, a winter's sun.

"Something tells me I may quite regret this," Gabranth commented dryly as he pulled Ffamran up against his side, to cradle him a little hesitantly against his chest, with a lover's sensitivity to his comfort. Ffamran rubbed his cheek against the hard muscle, and turned his face to chase Gabranth's scent: metal, ink, musk, leather.

--

Gabranth looked startled to see Ffamran cross-legged on a very familiar white couch, that now adorned the center of the living room of their shared apartment. The younger Judge grinned, hair still dewed from the shower, dressed only with a blue flannel towel around his waist, reading a novel. "Ho, Gabranth. How fared your day?"

"Passable," Gabranth tried hard not to stare too obviously at the towel as he removed his cloak and began the laborious process of unbuckling the elaborate dress armor of a Judge-Magister. "How did you get that?"

"What?" Ffamran asked innocently, then held up the novel he was reading. "This? 'Tis a new literary work from Shaer. Your chief aide Meridian recommended the volume to me. Seems 'tis fairly well-regarded."

Meridian was a single child, and she adored the seventeen-year-old like a long-lost younger brother, always plying him with sweets, books and her remarkable cooking. If she wasn't also concurrently attached and devoted to a Judge from Satre's bureau, Gabranth could have been worried.

"I meant the couch."

"Oh, this old thing? A gift from Zecht." At Gabranth's blink, Ffamran added slyly, "Remember him? Your mentor? Possibly balding, cantankerous, and already on his second girlfriend of the month?"

Gabranth grimaced. Angry phonecalls would soon be forwarded to Zecht's office, no doubt. He rather pitied his replacement as Chief Aide, a gentle soul of a woman who did not have the unbending will and patience required to deal with Zecht's many eccentricities. He had heard that she was going to flee to private practice anytime soon, and made a mental note to put in a word for her discreetly with the partners of some of the firms he was acquainted with.

"It was his favorite couch." The white couch had been in Zecht's office for longer than Gabranth could remember, and was the only thing in the office that was lovingly maintained. The soft white fur covering of the couch was rare, he had gathered, and besides, Zecht enjoyed sleeping on it, often far more than he enjoyed actually doing any work at all.

"I told him it had sentimental value to us," Ffamran's grin was still too innocent.

"He values it very highly," Gabranth said dryly, already on his greaves. Leaning the plates on the stand, he began to tug off his boots.

"I also suggested that he might as well give it to us, since we have had occasion to put it to good use several times in the past." Ffamran's grin was now really a smirk, and his tone was salacious.

Gabranth arched an eyebrow, even as he shrugged out of the padded undershirt. "Wait. We _never_ used it in any, er, way that could even have-"

"He did not need to know that, did he?" Ffamran's eyes were busily raking bared shoulders and biceps with undisguised hunger. "Besides, we could rectify that right now."

"We could," Gabranth smirked then, walking barefoot to the couch and clad only in breeches. Ffamran dropped the book over the side and stretched out his arms.

Kissing Ffamran till lips and cheeks were reddened was pleasant work; marking the white neck with licks and bites, then shoulders, until Ffamran was writhing beneath him, a welcome task. Gabranth ignored the boy's impatience, rolling and lapping at one nipple with his tongue until it was flushed and pebbled, then he began to suck and nip until Ffamran had fingers clawed in his hair, his beautiful back curved in a bow, begging. "_Gabranth_, please."

He ignored that, giving flesh a final kiss before moving to do exactly the same thing to the other nipple. This time, whilst he suckled, Ffamran was gasping, chest heaving, fingers clawing at his back. So impatient, his love. Relenting a little, he pushed fingers past the hem of the towel, to fondle the slender, thickened shaft between thumb and fingers. Ffamran whined.

Gabranth paused then, levering himself up onto his elbow. Ffamran frowned, eyes dark and narrowed with lust. "What?"

"Oil," Gabranth explained, preparing to get up to locate the bottle in their bedroom. Ffamran, however, merely smirked, and grabbed his free hand, pulling it between his legs. The tips of Gabranth's fingers felt the slick around the pucker, and he took in a breath sharply, harshly, even as his arousal began to throb with an insistent pulse. His "Turn around" was more a snarl than a request.

Indeed, the brat was laughing, pure mischief, up until Gabranth began to pound him into the couch in earnest, making sure the towel was between his lover and the white fur. He bit the shell of Ffamran's ear and ground in deeper yet, when Ffamran first cried out his name and shook beneath him, keeping himself buried to the hilt with an arm wrapped around a slender waist, until fingers wet from his lover's seed stroked Ffamran's limp prick back to attention.

--

"Is there something about this that I should know about?" Basch inquired, patting the white fur of the couch.

Balthier was seated primly in the armchair beside it, reading a newspaper. He peered up at Basch when spoken to, and smirked. "Why do you ask?"

Basch reflected wryly that he was getting better at telling when Balthier was evading: his tone would be a little different, a little higher, and his eyes would be slightly narrowed. "Because you have avoided even looking at it each time you come to this apartment, and because Meridian told me to get rid of it."

"She did, did she," Balthier murmured, turning his gaze back to the paper.

"And I am not quite sure why," Basch persisted, sitting down on the couch in question. "For if 'tis because it belonged to my brother, this is his apartment. Everything in it belonged to him."

Balthier stared at him for a moment, then dragged his gaze away again. "So it did. But the couch was also Zecht's, for a time."

There was certainly something Balthier was not telling him, but Basch decided to accept the explanation for now. There was another thing in the apartment that Meridian had advised him to destroy, but this, he had no doubt as to her meaning.

Balthier glanced up again at the click of a jewelry box opening, and Basch turned the black velvet box to him. Within it was a plain red gold ring, which had not been engraved. His brother romantic nature was only minimal.

The sky pirate's expression seemed to freeze, then he turned back to the paper. "I discarded that years ago, Basch. Get rid of it if you wish; 'tis no longer mine." Balthier's beringed left hand seemed more tightly curled: certainly Basch could feel his tension. _Old wounds._

"I just thought I would keep it as a reference," Basch said, as mildly as he could, though he closed the box. "Until I find something of similar beauty that you may fancy."

He opened the box again, ostensibly to look at the ring, running his fingers over the polished surface, crimson veins chased with gold. Red gold was a rare and exceedingly expensive commodity: the Gods only knew how his brother had gotten his hands on a ring, even with a Judge-Magister's pay.

There was a chuckle from the armchair. Basch looked up to Balthier's open, genuine amusement. "What is it about me, that causes me to attract unromantic people? I am not sure if that was more unromantic than your brother's 'here, do you want this?'"

"I will keep that in mind when I find something," Basch said dryly, amused at the thought. He could just imagine Gabranth doing so. In their defence, their father had never been a romantic, either, despite their mother's complaints.

"Meridian can no doubt advise you. She was deeply mortified by Gabranth's aforementioned actions, at the time."

"If I listened to her, I would no doubt be giving you a ring on some sort of flowered meadow, with a band of musicians hidden tastefully behind a tree and the sun fresh in the sky."

"Well, then make sure you do," Balthier said archly, his grin mischievous but the smile in his eyes, genuine.

-fin-

[Re: 'here, do you want this' I am sad to say that I know an instance where this happened in real life. My friend's sister was proposed to in this manner: 'this ring you want or not?' (excuse the Singlish). She did marry the person, and they now have a kid whom they are naming (father's name)son. Written humor can never trump real life.


End file.
